


Smoke Signals

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Angst, Depression, Fix-It, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Life Model Decoys, M/M, Post-Endgame, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrected Tony Stark, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: It’s an accomplishment for Peter to recreate the scene, constructing life from a set of screws and bolts. But Peter’s always wanted the real thing because plastic hearts are still plastic.He can pretend it's real though. That's the thing with hubris. If you have technology as your armor, you can play god.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 58
Kudos: 124





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tonysstarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonysstarks/gifts), [Sapphic_Futurist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphic_Futurist/gifts), [vicnic90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicnic90/gifts).



> For peachiepie who inspired the prompt, sapph for encouraging emo hippo vibes, and for my dearest vic. Thank you tempie for the beta. <3

“You smoke too much.”

Peter takes a drag and examines MJ. Her lips are dry, windburned, but glistening with gin. “Well, you drink too much.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. I guess I can’t give you shit for your life choices if you give me shit for mine.”

Peter shakes his head and rolls another cigarette. He puts the paper and some tobacco in the roller, flicking his thumb twice, three times until it’s ready. Mr. Stark didn’t smoke. Not around him, at least. He did, though, at some point in his life, and then, hung the drug binges after his fourth stint at rehab. That was another version of Tony Stark, one from another lifetime. A time before Peter was even born. 

It didn’t matter. He could smoke three packs of American Spirit in a day and his lungs would be just fine. He could run out of web fluid in his shooters as he falls out of a building and he’d still be fine. He’d be bruised and bloody. He’d limp home, walking in back alleys to avoid the city lights. He’d be fine. He’d live as if the universe was trying to punish him. Maybe Peter deserved it. Tony Stark was dead, and Peter Parker lived grudgingly. It’s a life that turns in circles, the same day repeating as a version of the past because there’s no moving forward. Not for him. 

He lights the cigarette with a lighter he nicked from a burglar in Flushing. It’s heavy on his fingers. There’s a linear art of the Empire State Building on the front. _New York, New York._ The city still turns. The lights in Stark Tower never go out. Sometimes Peter lies to himself and thinks he can see the beams all the way from his dorm in East Village. 

There’s graffiti art of Tony Stark in rancid smelling alleys in Midtown. Small portraits of Iron Man and the Avengers are sold in and along the streets of Fifth Ave. There’s a seemingly permanent photograph of him in Times Square, flashing beside the ads, the list of people who’ve vanished and returned. He’s everywhere but here. Vanished from this plane. Body burnt by the power of the stones, then incinerated because Ms. Potts couldn’t stand to bury him. But New York made an unmarked grave for Mr. Stark. The tallest tree in Central Park is surrounded with Iron Man figures, flowers, and photographs of Tony Stark. 

Then, there’s that space in his chest, above his floating ribs. He feels a tug there every time he swings past 34th Ave and catches the mural of Iron Man and Captain America. His heart is a spiderweb. It’s a shrine for Tony Stark, too. Delicate and ready to break with a slight push. Peter wishes it was stronger, durable like his web fluid. If only he could patch himself together, web his crumbling heart together and call it a day. 

He takes another drag and flicks the ash on the wooden tray. MJ is staring at her phone screen. She presses on it when it blacks out. There’s a photo of her and Mrs. Jones. 

“Sometimes, I still like to entertain the idea that she was snapped that day, because if she was, I’d see her again. Only for a moment, even if just to say goodbye,” MJ says, then takes a swig straight from the bottle. “But no, she died. She just died. It wasn’t the snap. She just died.” MJ shakes her head and sighs, perhaps to hide a sob. She glares at the bottle and wipes her eyes.

Peter doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to add. They sit with their grief and mourn the dead.

* * *

They finish college with tired smiles. MJ graduates from Columbia with honors. Peter scraps by and finishes his coursework in NYU that summer. It’s not that he’s stupid, it’s just hard to meet deadlines and lab work when he’s patrolling or being called by Captain Danvers to give the New Avengers a hand upstate. He’s only making up two incomplete courses, so he walks the stage, shakes hands with the Chancellor, and takes photographs across the campus. Aunt May hauls Ben’s old Olympus camera, snapping away.

“You’ll have to develop the film somewhere, you know.” Peter smiles, and snaps a photo of them on his phone.

“Well.” Aunt May bites her lip. There’s unshed tears in the corner of her eyes. “I think he would have used this if he was here.”

“He would have.” Peter hugs May and kisses the top of her head. 

They go to dinner with MJ and her father and try to have a normal evening. Mr. Jones doesn’t say anything when MJ asks the waitress for another bottle of wine and Aunt May pretends to not smell the cigarettes in Peter’s jacket. These days, he wears the scent like it's his undersuit. 

Halfway through dinner, Ned calls to congratulate them. His smile and laugh is infectious and it rubs off on both him and MJ, and Peter wonders why they let Ned leave for CalTech. New York is dreary, and with only each other’s company, MJ and Peter have fed off each other’s downcast atmosphere. 

But it’s alright because MJ makes observations about Peter’s life but she never asks him to stop smoking and he doesn’t call her an alcoholic. When he cries in the middle of the night, she answers, slurring platitudes. But the comfort is enough. 

Outside, it’s a warm June evening and the trees planted by the city are all in full bloom. New York is beautiful. Peter almost hates it because Mr. Stark loved this place so much. There’s a falafel shop he took Peter to after their lab time. There’s that diner with the best pecan pie. There’s the junk shop in Harlem where the owner chased Mr. Stark out of the premises with a broom. There’s a seat in Central Park where they ate ice cream and shared a bag of roasted almonds, watching people, talking shop, Mr. Stark sharing stories of his early inventions. He turns a corner and there’s Mr. Stark, a memory of him, always. 

Peter’s remiss to think that New York commemorated Mr. Stark. No, New York is all Tony Stark. Every streetlight, every inch Peter walks is a reminder that he’s all alone. No mentor, no friend. Resentment fades into grief, and grief consumes him with each step. 

MJ appears beside him and knocks their shoulders together as she reaches for something in her purse. She produces two airplane tequila shots and hands one to Peter. With a shrug, they clink the bottles and finish it in a couple of gulps. Mr. Jones and Aunt May exit the restaurant with resigned faces. 

“I take it we’re leaving you both to celebrate with a pub crawl?” Mr. Jones asks, pulling MJ for a hug. She rolls her eyes and suffers through it.

Peter smiles, scoops Aunt May into his arms, and holds her tight. He’s missed her. He sees her every weekend, but he misses her like crazy. Maybe he’s a bit crazy because she’s not gone. She’s real, flesh, hair smelling like citrus. She’s alive, and Peter still has her in his life. Little blessings, a man he rescued from a robbery told him that, count the little nuggets the universe offers. 

He listens to her heartbeat for a few more moments then turns up to kiss her cheek. “See you on Saturday for breakfast.”

“See you then, darling.” She grins, gives him a kiss on the forehead, and walks off.

MJ pulls him to the other direction, where the bars are lively and filled with people who are also looking to be less lonely. Peter grabs the cigarettes he rolled earlier, hands one to MJ, and they smoke all the way down Midtown. 

* * *

Peter doesn’t see Aunt May for breakfast that Saturday.

He sees her lifeless body without a heartbeat the day before. She’s a corpse lying in the mortuary with a sheet pulled all the way up to her collar. The technician leaves the room and Peter cries. He’s used to it, crying everyday for nearly six years now. He cries, the beat of the fallen tears like a familiar refrain. He reads her chart, commits it to memory. 

She's had the aneurysm for years and it ruptured the previous day, a Friday afternoon while she had a shift at the Salvation Army. In the middle of talking to her team, she dropped to the floor and didn't wake up. 

There she goes trying to build a life for those who are still affected by the decimation, almost a decade later. 

Six years earlier, she was snapped, dusted into atoms.

Six years later, she’s flesh and bone, but the blood has stopped circulating in her veins and she doesn’t breathe.

Peter exhales, drops to his knees, and clutches her body, shaking her with the force of his sobs. He doesn’t know how long he sits on the line linoleum floors. Time passes him and his senses wreak havoc because he can smell the bleached used on the floor, the disinfectant used on the medical tables, and there’s that smell of plastic, possibly from the latex gloves morticians use. There’s still the smell of stale coffee on Aunt May and citrus on her hair. There’s a hint of the cheap body soap she likes to purchase from the bodega down their street. It takes him back to just days ago, a happy dinner where he thought that despite it all, he’d be fine. 

Grief is a struggle. Aunt May told him that over and over again as he cried on her lap after Ben passed. It doesn’t get easier. No, this won’t fade away like the scars on his body or reset like his ribs after a rough night. This is it. 

He’s the last of the Parkers. Maybe the lineage ends with him. 

* * *

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” MJ adjusts the duffle bag on her shoulder. She peers up at him, eyes too knowing. Her scrutinization is something Peter will never get used to. Maybe it’s better that she leaves for a volunteer trip to Peru rather than psychoanalyze him to exhaustion. 

“I’ll be alright.” He pushes her luggage towards the airport’s sliding door. Beside them, travelers jog and laugh. Some sternly pull their kids to the side as a cart pusher collects travel bags from a family of five. The mother looks stressed out, the father aloof. Still, a family’s a family, and watching them reminds Peter that his kin is all dead or leaving New York.

“It’s just for the summer. I’ll be back by October.” 

Peter doesn’t say, _see you then,_ because the phrase reminds him too much of Aunt May’s last words for him, even if she left him a voicemail later that night, asking if he got home safe and would he prefer waffles over pancakes for breakfast that weekend? Waffles, Peter had texted her.

“October it is,” Peter says, nodding. 

“Seriously, Parker.” She punches his shoulder. “Call me anytime.”

“Noted.”

MJ shakes her head and grabs the handle of the rolling luggage. “Don’t just call when you need me. Call.”

“I’ll call,” he promises and gives her a side hug.

MJ bites her lip, tries to say something, then nods. Her father couldn’t bear to see her go, even if just for a few months. Losing Mrs. Jones changed them both. MJ always wants to be out of the house and her father stays and sleeps in the same bed where Mrs. Jones died of breast cancer. She flicks him off and turns away.

Peter watches her go. There’s another one gone.

* * *

Summer passes and he completes his courses. The university mails a diploma with a stamp that says “do not fold,” yet when it arrives in his small mailbox, it's curled in half. Peter takes it to the empty apartment, ignores Aunt May’s favorite afghan on the sofa, and opens the diploma. 

The certificate makes it official. Peter stands in the room, all alone, with no one else to congratulate him. He takes the double sided tape from the kitchen drawer and tapes it on the fridge. Beside it is a photo of him, Uncle Ben, and Aunt May at the Bronx Zoo. It’s old and faded just like the cuts he received last night. 

He sighs, opens the fridge and grabs a beer. He settles on the sofa, content on listening to distant noise of a siren and a truck backing up down the street. The house still smells like citrus. Oranges and something a little sharper. In the cabinet lies maple syrup from Delmar’s and box of waffle mix. He leaves it there. He’s not really hungry these days. Instead, he rolls another cigarette, letting the smell of the tobacco leaves center him. Everything else is extra.

This is what he has now: a home with the remains of two dead people, and a bathroom filled with dried, bloody bandages. 

* * *

Peter doesn’t look for a job, although he should. Aunt May’s insurance offers him a comfortable amount. He won’t have to worry about making rent for at least a year if he remains frugal and plays it right. But he’ll need some cash to update his web shooters because he doesn’t have access to the labs at NYU anymore. He’ll have to figure something out. 

Peter returns home from patrolling past 4am with a slight headache. He didn’t get stabbed, nor was he threatened with a gun. He slid off the railing of a building, but that’s half the fun of being Spider-Man. There’s an ache in his left eye that blooms to his cheekbones. His fingers are itching to roll a joint. Maybe he can fall asleep and not dream, not dream, not dream. Of them. Of Aunt May. Of Uncle Ben. Of Mr. Stark. But every time he closes his eyes, he smells tangerines and motor oil. 

When he stumbles out of his bedroom, it’s to see Aunt May’s closed door across the hallway. 

He’s living in a mausoleum. A museum filled with relics that he can’t let go of. Peter won’t. He’ll have that, at least, trinkets and photographs and mugs and pieces of scrap paper with Aunt May’s handwriting. He’ll have the memory of Mr. Stark sitting on his twin mattress. He still has the suit — the first one, folded and hidden in the ceiling compartment. 

Peter holds onto these objects because that’s all that’s left. 

He should have been more surprised when he finds Nick Fury sitting on the sofa with the multicolored afghan blanket on his lap. He’s nursing a cup of tea in a mug that Mr. Stark once drank from when he came over for dinner years and years ago. 

“So, you’ve graduated. What now?”

Peter shrugs, dropping to the armchair and pulling out his rolling machine. He lights and it smokes.

Fury raises an eyebrow. “Inside? Really.”

Peter huffs, annoyed and resigned. “Well, there’s no one here to tell me otherwise, is there.”

Fury gave him a measured look. They stay quiet. Queens is finally asleep, but it’ll soon wake up. The sun will rise and the cycle repeats. Peter takes another drag, humming as his lungs fill. He exhales and waits for Fury to finish his tea. 

“I’ve got a job for you.” He sets the mug on a coaster. Aunt May purchased them on sale from a local artisan. “At SHIELD. As Peter Parker. Tech work.”

“And Spider-Man?”

“That’s under Carol’s supervision with the New Avengers. I’m not touching Danvers’ toys. Last time I did that, I lost an eye.” 

“Alright.”

Fury nods, examining him up and down. It makes Peter feel uncomfortable, but he’s familiar with that feeling. He holds still, slightly tense, waiting for the condolences. Waiting for __I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry.__

He’s used to these phrases. It began with his parents, Uncle Ben strung along, and then half the world, including him, was dusted and he returned to life only to watch his favorite person in the world die. Lights out. Fire doused. A snap, then gone. 

The apologies don’t come. Peter doesn’t expect them from Fury, but his body and mind are trained to accept the condolences. 

“It’s good pay. You’ll have your own lab. You answer to me, no one else. You report to me when I ask you and you only tell me what you deem is important. Otherwise, save it for Maria Hill. Acceptable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” Fury stands, puts the mug inside the dishwasher. His leather coat swivels as he turns, dramatic as the night. 

He stops by the door and seems to soften, incrementally. He’s always been kind, especially after Mr. Stark died. Maybe Peter isn’t alone. Fury is far off from being a friend or mentor, but he’s a fair man, even if he’s difficult to know. 

Peter’s aware that this is an olive branch, a lifeboat, the little nugget of blessing that the pedestrian told him about. 

“Monday?”

Fury nods. “Report to SHIELD, 7:00 sharp.”

* * *

Peter calls MJ that weekend to let her know about the job. He hears children giggling in the background as she answers. 

“Do you want to work there?”

“I have nothing better to do,” he says, belatedly remembering that MJ can’t see him shrugging. He opens the fridge. There’s nothing in it but a six pack, a rotting tomato, and some sliced turkey. 

“Nothing better to do is not the same thing as wanting.” She sighs, and seems to move somewhere else because the sound of laughing children is gone. Instead, there’s an echo when she says, “Will you be okay?”

Peter closes the fridge, drops to the sofa, and decides he’ll get a sandwich from the deli down the block. “I’m always alright.”

“Yeah, yeah, same here,” MJ says. “So listen, they’re asking me to stay till January.”

“Oh.” Peter swallows. He’ll be alright. It’s not like he’s been waiting for MJ to come home. He’s been waiting for a lot of people to come back to him. But he’s not stupid. People leave and they don’t return because they’re dead. “That’s great, MJ.”

“Shut up, Parker,” she huffs. “I’ll be back after the New Year.”

“Alright, alright. When you come back, we’ll go on another pub crawl. There’s this place on 10th Ave and 47th Street." 

He doesn't tell her that it's near a Salvation Army, nor does he confess that he's never entered.

“About that...”

Peter hums, awaiting her reply. “They have trivia nights too. We’d definitely win. Price is a bottle of Jack.”

“Yeah, so. I haven’t been drinking.” There’s a rustle on the other line, a door creaks, and then MJ adds, “I’ve been…sober for a few weeks now.”

He doesn’t gasp, but it’s a close thing, and he’s proud of her, so much so that he feels like his heart is dropping from his chest. “It must be good for you there.”

“It has been. It’s been really good, Peter.”

Peter can imagine her smile. He misses her. They’re family. Two little people in a sad, changing world. “You’re not gonna tell me to stop smoking, are you?”

She laughs. “Never.”

* * *

Peter settles into the job at SHIELD. Rather than situating him with a lab at the helicarrier, Fury gives him a basement floor at a SHIELD base in Broad Channel. It's him and a couple of lowly agents working on chemical experiments and weapons testing. 

Peter goes to work on time and leaves too late. He usually grabs dinner at a cafe, messing with several projects on his tablet so he doesn't get reminded that he's eating alone. He’s been alone for too long. 

Life goes on. 

Peter thinks he made friends with some of the other scientists in SHIELD, but they are generally secretive about their projects, so it's hard to know them. He doesn't mind. Peter doesn't want to be disturbed either. He does lab analysis, mostly. Fury doesn't pressure him with work or deadlines. It's like he's been given a free lab to pursue his own experiment. Maybe Fury feels bad for him. Maybe Fury is trying to show he cares. Peter is alone after all, and while Mr. Stark called him an Avenger, Captain Danvers hasn’t added him to the official team roster. 

Once, she said, “Live your life, kid.” 

He isn’t a child, hasn’t been for a long time. But he tries not to dwell on all the things he’d rather be doing. This is his life, and it’s okay. Despite it all, he’s fine. 

Peter updates his web shooters. In the middle of October, he tries to make the web fluid sturdier and ends up burning his hands. He doesn't patrol that night. Instead, he falls asleep in the lab while waiting for his hands to heal. He's waiting for his heart to be okay, too. 

He calls MJ, yelling over the phone when he can’t hear her. Peter video calls Ned and they talk for hours and promise to call each other more. Ned is busy with graduate work at Berkeley now, but he swears up and down that he’ll visit soon. 

Soon. It’s always soon, isn’t it? Except, time seems to stand still and Peter remains standing at the edge of the highest building, waiting to fall. Maybe one day, step forward and forget that he has shooters on his wrists.

The irony is that he’ll probably survive the fall.

* * *

The days pass. October fades into November, and the end of the month finds Peter sitting in his apartment with a turkey-cranberry sandwich from the deli and a bottle of cheap wine. “Happy thanksgiving,” he says to no one, because Aunt May is dead, along with Uncle Ben and Mr. Stark.

He takes a sip of wine, just a bit, just to calm himself, and then smokes while he watches TV. After dinner, he puts on the suit and patrols Queens. Swinging across rooftops, Peter peaks through several windows, catching glimpses of both small and large families sharing dinner. Laughing over a bowl of mashed potatoes and slices of pie. He aches with something awful. It’s like seeing Mr. Stark snap and smelling citrus around the house. He cries through his mask. KAREN asks if he’s alright because his heart rate is elevated and he’s sitting at the edge of a bridge, limbs heavy from sobbing.

“I’m okay,” he replies to KAREN. 

From this corner of hell, the lights of the city are bright, dulling the light of the stars above him. It’s his neighborhood. At least Peter has that.

* * *

A week before Christmas, Peter lugs the Christmas tree from the storage. He stares at it until he falls to the floor and cries. It’s the first Christmas he’ll spend alone. But he shoves that thought aside and opens the box of ornaments. 

There’s one with Yoda. He picked it out with Uncle Ben at the Rockefeller Center. It was overpriced and he didn’t ask for it, but Uncle Ben bought it anyway just because he saw Peter eying it. 

He had said, “Sometimes it’s okay to ask for things, Peter.”

Still, it’s an act Peter has yet to manage. 

He puts them up, one by one. Every year, they purchased a new ornament. Just one.

One to add to their little tree. 

They first bought the tree from a Goodwill across the neighborhood. He was four and still aching for losing his parents. Aunt May said they’d buy their first ornament that day. Every year, they’ll buy another and put it up. Year by year passed, and Aunt May promised they’d fill the tree with the memory of them adding a new ornament each Christmas. 

There’s twenty-one ornaments in the box and the first one Peter chooses to hang is of Iron Man. One of its hands is up, as if it was in mid-flight. Peter smiles, adjusts its hands, and puts it on the tree. One by one, he hangs them all up and wraps the lights around the tree. 

He goes on patrol that evening and decides to continue the tradition. Peter gets home bruised, but already healing. He drops to his bed and falls into restless sleep. 

The following afternoon, he takes the subway to Manhattan. At the station, a young woman sings with her guitar, rocking out to the holiday cheer until it devolves into something somber. Softer. He drops a couple of bills, what he can spare, and leaves the station to enter the Salvation Army on 47th Street. 

The place is half-empty, and he’s one of the few people shopping alone. Peter takes his time perusing the aisle.

He doesn’t have anyone to give presents to this year. 

MJ is gone and Ned is thousands of miles away. Maybe he should have made friends in college but it’s hard to crack your ribs open and let the world see you, all the parts you tolerate and hate. 

Peter’s been alone for a long time, and it’s only now he realizes the weight of his loneliness. 

* * *

He skips out of the subway station, carrying the __Stark Tower__ ornament in a paper bag. It’s fitting, hanging a version of a place he once considered home. Lab time with Mr. Stark was his favorite time of the week. Now, it’s a memory locked away. 

Peter turns the corner, eyes up to the sky, only to see smoke from a distance. He breaks into a run, at full speed, muttering apologies as he pushes people out of the way. He stands in front of the building he grew up in — what’s left of it. 

Unlike burning a log in a campfire, the remains of the building had an acrid, almost violent smell. Ten apartments, five floors, gone. 

His landlord Mr. Katz is crying on the phone. Peter can't tell if that's his daughter on the phone or the insurance company. He can't focus. There's the overwhelming scent of the burnt structure. The bricks have crumbled and there's ash on the floor. He feels it raining down on them. Burnt. Burn. Burning, and he's taken back to the memory of the snap. The Compound. The instant moment where the world was alright, restored, but just for a fleeting minute, because the universe died when Mr. Stark snapped. Peter got to him first. He'll never forget the scent of burning flesh. Of the light escaping from Mr. Stark's eyes.

He’s ready to duck into the alley and put the suit on. No, nevermind, Peter would go like this. The web shooters are always on his wrists. He should have been faster. He could have been here — 

Peter stumbles forward, catching the attention of a firefighter. “Is there still — was the building cleared?” 

“You live here?” He asks, adding, “The building is clear. The ambulance has already taken some residents to the hospital.”

Peter nods. “Okay, okay, okay.” 

The firefighter turns to him, a grim line on his face. “I’m sorry, kid. Do you have somewhere you can stay?”

“No,” he says, looking up at where the third floor used to be. 

Aunt May and Uncle Ben raised him in that house. There’s mold on the showers and it gets too hot in the winter because Mr. Katz sets the heat for the entire building. There’s cracks on the wall of his bedroom and sometimes the window didn’t fully close. But it’s home, has been for a long time. 

All that’s left of Aunt May and Uncle Ben, burnt. Framed photographs. Uncle Ben’s Olympus camera. His diploma taped to the fridge. The original Spider-Man suit. The Stark Industries tablet Tony gave him years ago. Aunt May’s clothes, her afghan blanket. The mugs and plates they ate on for decades. The Christmas tree he put up and the ornaments they’d collected through the years.

Peter only has the clothes on his back, his suit, and this stupid ornament in his hands.

* * *

He spends Christmas at the SHIELD lab with a bottle of Black Label. Peter only gets a buzz. It lasts for less than an hour, but in that time, he makes it to the attached bathroom and breaks the sink. He’ll fix it in the morning. For now, Peter stares at his reflection and wishes that the scars stayed visible. At least then, there’s evidence of all that he’s endured. His body is a canvas blanket but his insides burn. Outside, he’s fireproof. Inside, the structures of his organs fall and fall and fall. A building of flesh and blood reduced to ashes.

* * *

The next few days are a blur. Peter doesn’t have clothes to change into and he doesn’t have enough money to buy a new wardrobe when he needs to save his paycheck for a deposit on a loft. He goes out to Brooklyn, gets high, mixes his drinks, and has a fuck in the back of an alley. He doesn’t remember their name, but he gets on his knees and sucks the man off. He gets a sloppy handjob out of it. The next few days follow the same pattern. He’s trying not to feel anything. He’s trying to feel good. Sex does that. He blanks out for a moment, sedated, only for the world to come rushing back and his senses registering everything from the gum stuck on his shoe to the smell of piss in the corner of the bar. 

It’s alright, he tells himself. Peter goes back to the lab. Fury doesn’t say anything even if he must know that Peter’s lost his only home and there’s nowhere to return to. All he has is the stupid Stark Tower ornamnet hanging on a corkboard. 

On New Year’s Eve, he stops by a Goodwill, grabs a few clothes that fit him. Some don’t. Some are too large on his waist, and some are too small on his shoulders, but it’s alright. It’ll do. He returns to SHIELD after getting fucked in the bathroom of a cheap bar and cries himself to sleep.

* * *

MJ returns the first week of January and insists that Peter stay with her for a while. 

He spends a few weeks on Mr. Jones’ sofa, listening to MJ’s adventures in Peru. He can’t live there though, so he hauls his ass back to Broad Channel and falls asleep on the cot. The other technicians and scientists don’t comment about him cleaning off in the decontamination showers. 

Winter turns into spring. Ned visits sometime in March and Peter cries on his shoulder. There’s so much he wants to explain to both Ned and MJ, but Peter can’t find the words. Instead, with shaky fingers, he smokes and gestures at himself. Talks in broken sentences, trying to capture the barbed parts of himself. Attempting to show them that this is all that’s left. 

Ned declares that he’s moving back, but Peter can’t have that, so he walks Ned to the airport and they have another tearful goodbye.

He returns to the SHIELD base that evening to find Ms. Potts and Fury waiting for him. 

“Is this an intervention?” Peter asks, setting his backpack down. He maneuvers the lab stool in front of Ms. Potts and Fury, then sits down. 

“It seems a little too late for that, Parker,” Fury says. 

Ms. Potts sighs, her lips are painted red and her fingers are manicured. She looks put together. Peter doesn’t want to look at himself in the mirror and compare himself with her. “I should have come sooner, I’m sorry.”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t need apologies. “What can I help you with?”

Ms. Potts smiles, a small, sad thing. Guilty, maybe, Peter thinks. For what, he doesn’t know. She’s done her best, moved on, lived her life. He’s a little jealous that she’s able to sit in an office in Stark Industries with her head high. Wife, widow, winner. 

“Move into the penthouse at Stark Tower,” she says, tone firm. There’s no room for discussions.

“Uh.” He scratches the back of his head. “Why?”

“It’s empty,” she says. “Has been for awhile. I don’t have a use for it, you know.” 

“I don’t — I couldn’t — I, uh.” 

Ms. Potts raises a hand. “This is a logical decision. You need a place to stay. The penthouse is free. There’s a lab. You used to love it there.”She trails off, examining his face. Peter doesn’t know what she sees, but Ms. Potts softens and she nods, determined. He’s seen her give that look to Mr. Stark over the years. “It’s decided. Come on then, bring your stuff.” 

Fury pushes him to the door. Peter understands that if he protests, he’ll lose. Dazed, he grabs his backpack and follows Ms. Potts out.

The ride to the Tower is quiet, but Ms. Potts doesn’t bother with turning the radio on. There’s a partition between them and the driver, offering some privacy. Peter doesn’t know what to say. 

“Here,” she says, pulling a slim package out of her leather briefcase. She hands it over without another word. “Call it a housewarming gift.”

Peter takes it, nervous, because he never got things for free. The other shoe always drops. With careful fingers, he rips the side of the paper wrapping and folds into the side. It’s a frame. A picture of him and Mr. Stark holding his internship certificate upside down because they're a mess when they're together. But the memories were always happy, full of grins and sarcastic jabs. He looks delighted in the photograph. They both do.

“Mrs. Potts...” Peter tries, tracing the edges of the frame with his index finger.

“Call me Pepper.”

“Ok,” Peter says, rolling her name across his tongue. “Pepper.”

“Good, good.” She smiles again, and it’s uncomfortable because it’s motherly in a distant sort of way. It reminds him of Aunt May. “He placed that in one of the kitchen cabinets along with a little cup that he and Morgan painted at a Color Mine." She laughs so bird-like; a short sing-song sound that trails off. "Tony was always on dish duty at the cabin so he saw that every night. Everyday." Pepper leans forward and for a second, Peter thinks she'll grasp his hand, but she doesn't. Her eyes are bright and a deep blue, but Morgan has all of Mr. Stark's features, down to the way she smiles. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Peter?"

He shakes his head and swallows, letting his eyes roam on the photograph because if he looks at Pepper, she’ll know. She’ll know, and maybe she always suspected, but it’s different to have the confirmation: yes, Peter breaks, he hasn’t moved on because all the life has been snuffed out of him and there’s nothing but the work — being Spider-Man. 

It’s not really a life. But it’s good work. At least he has that.

“There wasn’t a single day when he didn’t think about you. It’s why he went back to the Compound. There was a chance he could bring you back, and he did it.” 

“Pepper…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Mr. Stark is —” 

Pepper holds up a hand and drops it on his shoulder. “It wasn't your fault, Peter. Please, don’t think otherwise. He’d never be able to rest until he fixed it. That’s what he does, Tony, he fixes things. He can’t sleep at night until it’s all good. Until it’s perfect by his standards.” 

“He was a perfectionist, yeah.” Talking about Mr. Stark to his widowed wife is like prying a bullet from his chest. She had him in all the ways Peter tried not to think about. There was no jealousy there, and when he looks up at Pepper, her eyes are knowing and he feels like he’s back in a warehouse, getting his insides cut open. “Futurist. Are you — how are you, Pepper?”

“I should have given you these things sooner. I’m sorry, I’m years late, Peter.” She rubs her temple and turns to the window, then nods. 

She’s a strong woman, stronger than Peter even with the powers and all. Pepper lives her life, moves forward, and she’s alright. Content, maybe, happy. He wonders what that’s like. “It’s alright.”

“Loving Tony is both the easiest and the most exhausting thing. You get that, right? He takes half of your soul and you let him anyway. This past decade, I’ve been piecing myself together. There’s always going to be love there. But I wanted it back because I need to live, Peter. I need to. I don’t know any other way.”

She’s trying to tell him something without using the actual words, and he knows this. He isn’t dense. And because she doesn’t utter the words, he cracks like a hairline fracture. Peter grasps Pepper’s hands, squeezes it twice before pulling her into a hug. 

“I know the feeling,” he mumbles on her neck, willing away the tears threatening to slip from his eyelids. 

“It’s alright. It’s okay.”

Soon enough they pull away and the car stops moving. “Welcome home.”

Being inside the Tower is like being trapped under a building. Peter hasn’t entered its premise in years because he still feels too raw and even looking at the Tower from the bridge, across rooftops, makes him breathless. 

They take the private elevator from the parking garage, and there’s a familiar voice that greets him. “Hello, Peter.”

“FRIDAY. Hi.” He clocks the moving camera on the corner and waves. “It’s been awhile.”

“The lab has been quiet without you, Peter.”

“Don’t know if you heard the news, but I’m moving into the penthouse.”

FRIDAY makes a pleased sound. “I look forward to assisting you in the workshop.”

Peter smiles and turns to Pepper. “Thank you — thanks, you know, for doing this. I, uh, it means a lot.”

The elevator doors open, but Pepper doesn’t step out. She pushes him forward with a light tap on the shoulder. Before the doors close, she asks, “Still miss him?”

Peter doesn’t say, __always, all the damned time, like crazy._ _

Instead, he nods. “Still miss him?” He parrots the words back to see her lips curl into a smile. 

“Unfortunately.” 

They both laugh and the doors close.

* * *

Peter settles at the Tower. FRIDAY has groceries delivered and sometimes food appears out of nowhere. He eats a bit better and it shows in his patrols. One day, Peter opens the wardrobe to the spare room he’s claimed and there’s a set of expensive clothes with tags on them. Of course, Mr. Stark programmed FRIDAY to serve as the Tower’s infrastructure, an assistant, and a caretaker. 

Even in death, Mr. Stark is still taking care of him. 

“Thanks, FRI.” Peter pulls on the sweater, walks out of his bedroom, only to enter the master suite. He drops on Mr. Stark’s bed, pulls the covers off, and tucks himself. He pretends that he can smell Mr. Stark’s aftershave on the pillows. Nevermind that the penthouse is cleaned weekly. Nevermind that Mr. Stark has been dead for seven years and counting. Nevermind it all. Peter can pretend. He’s good at lying to himself.

Peter imagines Mr. Stark is in the shower. They had just shared kisses in bed. He imagines that Mr. Stark asks him to shower together, but Peter denies the request because he’s still sleepy, and Mr. Stark laughs and calls him a cat wrapped up in the blanket. He pretends that the water is hitting the tiles and that it’s not the strum of his heart breaking again and again. Peter tells himself that Tony will walk out of the bathroom, a towel on his waist and a grin on his face.

He falls asleep wrapped in Mr. Stark’s bed and he only feels slightly ashamed.

* * *

He finishes work at Broad Channel and takes the subway back to the Tower for dinner. He naps in Mr. Stark’s bed and sometimes wears his clothes around the penthouse. When it hits 10pm, Spider-Man makes an appearance around Queens. Again and again, the days repeat.

He sees MJ for lunch over the weekend, and she announces she’s leaving for another volunteer trip, this time in Bolivia. They have brunch in a cafe by the Tower and she pointedly orders water but shares half a cigarette with Peter as they walk along Central Park.

“You don’t have to take me to the airport this time. I can’t stand to see you cry again.”

“Wow, you’re hilarious, MJ,” he deadpans, only because she’s seen him cry too many times.

“I’ll be back before September.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t worry about you.”

“Sure.”

“Stark Tower, huh?” She sits on a bench with one foot up. “A step up from your 1 and half bath in Queens. Bet it’s lonely living up there.”

Peter hums. “Queens was lonely, too.”

MJ chuckles, it’s a short, barely there thing. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s really a thing called moving on because yeah, we forget. We go on about our day and we forget and we live our lives and sometimes we’re okay. But I wonder if that’s the same for us.”

“I don’t know, MJ.” 

They’re the type of people to hold onto things tightly, with all their might, because they know that it’s like to grasp for vanishing things. For Peter, that was holding onto Tony’s shoulders, begging, crying for him. 

“Sometimes I think it was easier when we were younger, but that’s probably not true.” She punches Peter's shoulder and takes a drag before passing the stick back to him. “Tell me we aren’t just friends because we’re both constantly in a shitty mood.”

“Ned wouldn’t be friends with us if we were always in a shitty mood,” Peter says, flicking her forehead. She punches him, hard, on the thigh. “Besides, we’re not all about being sad.”

“Lies we tell ourselves,” she replies. 

* * *

He ducks into the smoke shop, greets the shopkeeper, an old woman with streaks of gray in her hair. She smiles at him when he asks for a couple of fruity cigars. This is what he calls a snack these days. 

Peter climbs a building. Up, up, higher and higher, until the sound of the city is just a dull ache, a short reminder that the world keeps moving, existing even though he’s falling apart. 

He pulls his mask to his forehead and rubs at the bruise on his jaw. It’s healing. It’ll be a pale yellow by the time he swings home. He plays with the lighter, wondering where that burglar took this from. 

Once, he went on a trip to the Empire State Building and they had the same exact lighters. Maybe that burglar had a home too, a place, a family to go home, too. Did he steal the lighter, Peter wonders, flicking the flame, then closing the cap, only to turn the fire back on. He watches it for a while, lost in the way the fire dies as the wind blows. 

Mr. Stark was like that.

You want to be a man, you want to be a hero, you have to be willing to be in the line of fire. 

If walking on fire is what it takes to be in his vicinity, Peter thinks that turning into dust in Titan is a good equivalent. Be around Tony Stark, and you’ll burn. It’s not a warning. It’s a promise.

Peter wonders if it was like this for Mr. Stark after Titan, if he also had trouble sleeping, if he repaired the armor in the middle of the night, if he flew above the city and watched the lights go out. After Titan, Peter’s not really interested in tracing the stars anymore. 

He finishes the cigar, then heads for patrol. 

* * *

Peter presses a hand to his left torso to stop the bleeding. He stumbles forward, moving past the debris and broken structures of the factory to find Fury and Maria Hill. He can’t save Hill. She’s choking on her own blood and there’s a metal beam lodged in the middle of her stomach. 

“I’m sorry.” Peter wishes he could pull his mask up so Maria Hill could see his eyes — see that it’s not just a suit, not just Spider-Man, but Peter, too. “Fuck, Maria, I’m sorry.”

“Go,” she mutters and chokes. “Go, Parker.”

He hauls Fury up and they make it out of the building, the Green Goblin’s remains burning along with Maria Hill’s as the bombs detonate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He shoots his web and it's not enough — he has to do better, be better, he can’t fail, but he’s running out of web fluid by the time they make it past the bridge. He sets Fury down, takes off his mask, and rubs his eyes.

He’s known Maria for ages. They weren’t close, but he knew her. She drank her coffee with a splash of milk and she didn’t like the taste of whiskey. She asked him to stop smoking.

“Don’t mourn her,” Fury says, standing up. His coat is covered in her blood. Peter knows, he can smell it. Type A negative. “Focus, Parker.”

“I’m trying — I’m hold on. Just.” He takes a deep breath, inhales the rancid smell of the East River, then pulls down his mask. His senses are too dialed up and he can taste the blood Maria Hill coughed up. “Okay, okay.”

“She’s fine.”

“She’s dead.”

“She’s not dead.” Fury tilts his head to a stealth helicopter flying towards them. It stops just a few feet away, and there’s Maria Hill on the pilot seat, a smirk that softens when she sees Peter’s face.

“I’m not dying until I get you to quit smoking, kid,” she said, voice grim. “Let’s go. Debrief in 15.”

Peter turns to Fury. “But how? I saw her at the —”

“LMD,” Fury says, jumping into the helicopter with ease. 

“LMD?”

“Life Model Decoy.” Maria Hill shuts the doors once Peter’s strapped inside. “We all get one. That Fury next to you is one, too.”

“What the fuck?” Peter says. “It looks like you. I saw you die. You were bleeding. I smelled you. It was you —”

“Fingerprints, retina scans, blood type, whatever you can think of — it’s in the LMD. Ask someone in the department because I don’t have time to walk you through the science of it,” Maria Hill replies, swinging the helicopter higher and higher, flying them to the helicarrier. 

“Is it a clone?”

“No. It’s android.” 

“But why?” Peter asks, examining Fury — a version of him, at least. It’s pristine. Perfect. He couldn’t tell the difference. How many times did he talk to a LMD of Fury and Hill? 

“Because we’re not built like you,” Fury grunts. Even their voices and mannerisms are the same. “We need contingencies.”

* * *

Peter gets clearance to see the LMD files.

“Why? You don’t have to — I’m not even a mechanical engineer by training.”

Fury crosses his arms. He wonders why Fury bothers on entertaining him at all, he has the world to run.

“It’s for your own piece of mind.” Fury walks forward, uncrosses his arms, and drops a hand to squeeze Peter’s shoulder. His face softens in increments, which is saying much, because Fury retains his serious, no bullshit composure. “Hill and I, we’re not dying anytime soon, alright, kid?”

Peter tries to laugh but it's echo in the room sounds off. He might cry. He can smell the leather of Fury’s jacket and the tang of gun oil that always follows him. This is familiar. They’re not family, but he has them. For now.

“Okay, okay.” He tries to smile but his face feels like it’s stretched thin. Peter overextends himself from point A to point B, but that’s the thing with elasticity, stretching far enough, it’ll either never find itself back to its original form or it’ll snap and break.

Fury leaves the lab and Peter is left alone with the possibilities.

It dawns on him. He should do it. He shouldn’t. He won’t. 

* * *

But sometimes he’s so hurt, he can’t tell the difference between loneliness and desperation. 

He walks around New York with his head down, catching fallen pennies and gum on the concrete. Peter pulls his hood down and enters the living room. “I’m home.”

Aunt May turns from the kitchen, a cookie in hand. “How was your day?”

Peter drops his bag and walks over, pulling her into a hug. “It was good.”

“Work?” 

“Fine,” Peter mumbles into her head. 

Aunt May laughs and indulges him by squeezing him. “Happy to see me? Was work so awful that you needed a cuddle?”

“Just happy to see you.” He burrows his head on her neck and inhales. It smells like citrus and a hint of something else. Almost perfect. 

They have dinner. Thai take out because Aunt May can’t cook and somethings don’t change. They sit on the counter and eventually migrate to the watch TV after the containers are all stuffed into the fridge.

Peter kicks his feet up, watching Aunt May do the same. They turn to each other, identical grins on their faces, and sometimes he thinks he misses his mother — but Aunt May is his mother too. Has been for a long time. They watch reruns of Schitt’s Creek. They’ve seen this so many times because it’s familiar and they know all the lines but still laugh at all the right places. Peter has to hide his face when he hears her laugh. Just an octave lower than the original. 

He doesn’t want to cry.

Not tonight. He has patrol. He needs to be in the best shape possible. Last week, a bullet grazed his thigh because he kept thinking about Aunt May being alone in the Tower and the possibility of FRIDAY forgetting to alert him that someone was coming to the penthouse?

He pushes the thoughts away and sets his head on Aunt May’s lap.

She tuts, petting his hair. “Silly kid.”

“Not a kid, anymore.”

“You’ll always be a little baby to me.”

“Even if I mess up? Even when —” Peter sighs, closes his eyes, and zeroes in on the feel of comfort. Aunt May’s here, even for just a little while. 

He promised himself that it would be temporary. Just until he felt a little better. Until he could sleep without exhausting himself from patrol. Until the nightmares went away. Until he stopped thinking and feeling and hoping like hell to see all the dead people in his life again.

“You’re a good kid, Peter. The best. The best of us. This world doesn’t —”

“I programmed you to say that,” he says, letting the tears fall from his face. He can’t see the TV but he can smell Aunt May. It’s the same shampoo she’s always used. That’s what Peter asked FRIDAY to get for the tower. He doesn't want to replicate her. He doesn’t want a copy. She shouldn’t be dead. She shouldn’t be — Uncle Ben. Mr. Stark. They shouldn’t be dead. They shouldn’t — 

Aunt May reaches for the remote and mutes the TV. She pulls Peter to a sitting position until they’re staring into each other’s eyes. They’re both brown. Familiar. They’re blood. They’re family, of course they’ll have the same cut of jaw. A similar nose. An atmosphere for melancholia following them both as the people they love drop dead around them. 

“You did program me. But you programmed me as you know me, and you’re brilliant, of course you are, Petey. Of course, I’d say this. Not just what you want to hear. But — I’m me. I’m not me. I’m an approximation.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry —”

“Pete, you don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do —”

“What I’ve done is unethical. I know. I just. I miss you, I’m — please. Just a little while.”

“As long as you need,” she says, and it’s so much like Aunt May, even the quirk of her eyebrow, as if she disapproves but won’t tell Peter why.

His heart shrivels up. Peter didn’t think it was possible because he didn’t think it was still there. But it’s there, and it shrinks inch by inch.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for, this time?”

_For not being able to build Ben because I couldn’t remember enough of him, not even with all the VHS tapes because they burnt in the fire and the photographs I had on my phone weren’t enough. Because I couldn’t recall the pitch of his voice or what he sounded like when he was disappointed. Because I only remember the times he read me stories and laughed with me and patched my bloody knees when I fell off the bike. Because, because, because —_

“Couldn’t save your Afghan blanket from the fire.” 

“Just get me another one.” Aunt May offers him a cheeky smile and ruffs his hair. He’s too old for it, goddamnit. He’s twenty-five fucking years old, but he hates them for leaving him and he cries about it like a child. Maybe he’s still a kid. He doesn’t know. 

* * *

There is a time when Mr. Stark takes the suit to get burgers from his favorite diner in Cambridge just because he wants Peter to try them. Peter watches the suit fly into the rooftop and Mr. Stark walks down like pavement was a fucking red carpet, the bots stripping him of the armor. 

Peter recalls the faceplate coming off first. Mr. Stark winks. The smell of him. Sweat, fries, and something so masculine, Peter aches with want. 

“Sorry, they’re probably cold now, kid.” Mr. Stark offers the paperbag and leads them back into the warmth of the penthouse. 

“That’s alright, Mr. Stark. I’m just glad you went — you didn’t have to! I could have waited until I was at MIT, you know.”

Mr. Stark snorts, a small smile on his face. There’s a bead of sweat on his temples and Peter tells himself to calm down because knowing he wants to lick the taste of Mr. Stark off is an intrusive thought. Those are the ones he saves at night.

“So, you’ve decided on MIT, huh?”

“Have to be admitted first,” Peter says, taking the burgers out of the oil-soaked bag. He grabs a piece of fry and pops it into his mouth. Mr. Stark was right. It’s cold, but Mr. Stark flew all the way to Cambridge just to get it for Peter because they fed off each other’s excitement. It’s for him. That’s the best thing in the world, knowing Mr. Stark did something just because Peter hinted he might like it. He doesn’t know how it could be like this. Peter feels like the luckiest person alive to have Mr. Stark’s focus on him. To share the same space with him. 

Lately, Peter’s taken to counting the inches between them because he wants to bridge the gap. It’s a chasm, a string of reasons why they’d never work, why Peter refuses to say anything. He’s a kid, and Mr. Stark is a light beam. When it shines on him, everything else fades.

Peter passes one of the burgers to Mr. Stark, who takes it with a smile. They kick up their feet on the sofa and FRIDAY plays a horror film that Mr. Stark swears is a classic. Peter doesn’t care. He’s just happy to be here. Feeling bold, he takes a fry between his fingers and offers it to Mr. Stark. He keeps his eyes on the opening scene of the film, faux nonchalance, and says, “It’s kinda of soggy but it’s still good.”

Mr. Stark leans down, opens his mouth, and Peter’s center of gravity fades away. He falls forward, puts the fry into Mr. Stark's awaiting mouth, and turns back to the movie. Mr. Stark has stopped watching. He takes another bite of his burger not realizing that Peter is falling apart beside him. 

Peter bites his lip so he doesn’t sigh. He finishes the burger with a cold belly full of want.

* * *

In late July, Spider-Man and Daredevil team up to fight the Kingpin. There, Dr. Ock appears again, and they find out the Kingpin is funding her research projects. 

They have a wild chase in Staten Island and Peter almost laughs, asking Daredevil, "You don't really stray far from Hell's Kitchen, do you?"

It’s a brutal fight. Spider-Man and Daredevil are at odds. They’re uncoordinated but they make it work. Dr. Ock escapes and the Kingpin promises to murder Daredevil. It’s another day in New York.

Peter swings to the penthouse rooftop and FRIDAY lets him in through the double doors. He has three double cheeseburgers in a paper bag. 

Inside, May shakes her head and sits him down to the table. She already has the first aid kit out and a pair of tweezers. “Caught Spider-Man getting thrown across a glass building. Roll up your sleeves.” She wields it like a sword and pulls a shard out. “I swear, New York is a hotbed for people who think they’re bright enough to take over the world.”

That’s the thing, isn’t it. 

“I wonder if Mr. Stark thought it would be like this. When he — when he passed. When he snapped. He probably didn’t think it was going to be like this. You know, that there’s still crime. That those bad guys that were snapped were back, claiming their old territory. That the world would just,” Peter sighs, frustrated. “That the world just keeps turning. He died. He’s dead. Mr. Stark is gone and the world keeps turning. I don’t know. I can’t understand _how_.” 

Peter shrugs and takes off his mask with his freehand. He drops it on the dining table — where Mr. Stark had had breakfast and ate pizza with Peter — and doesn’t even flinch when Aunt May dabs alcohol on his arms. He’s learned to be honest with May. Peter always told her the truth whenever she asked. Omissions aren’t lies, but Peter’s spent the past year alone, he thinks he’ll erupt with everything he wants to tell her. 

“Still on about him, huh?” She shakes her head, but it’s affectionate. It’s a recited conversation they know the words to. “He probably did. The word doesn’t change, Pete. We like to believe it does, but it goes on.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, hurting, because this is exactly what Aunt May would say. He chokes down the sob because he’ll cry later, after he’s had dinner and showered. When he’s alone, and he’ll count the days when he turns her off. 

It’s just for a bit. For a little longer. It’s for closure. This is all to rewrite their last days. This time Peter gets to say goodbye.

* * *

The day after his birthday, still full of an overindulgent cheesecake, he hugs Aunt May goodbye.

She kisses his cheek and pulls him in for a tight hug. It’s eerily similar to last time, only this time, Peter had the reigns to set up the scene. He smells her, smiling. It’s still citrus. 

“See you,” Peter says, stepping away. 

“See you then, darling.” Aunt May steps to the port and FRIDAY activates the machine.

Peter watches as it peels her off — hair, skin, fingernails — little by little, she disappears. In the end, there’s just the mechanical parts. Ports. Wires. No synthetic heartbeat. Just screws and bolts to recycle for another project. Program erased. 

It’s alright, this time around. 

* * *

The problem is when you let yourself have something just once, you’ll crave it again and again, always chasing after that high. It’s like his first cigarette. Just once, he’s said. It’s a lie.

It’s an accomplishment for Peter to recreate the scene, constructing life from a set of screws and bolts. But Peter’s always wanted the real thing because plastic hearts are still plastic. He can pretend it's real though. He’s done it with Aunt May. That's the thing with hubris. If you have technology as your armor, you can play god. 

It’s just for the holidays.

He can’t endure another Christmas alone. MJ’s busy with school and picking up volunteer shifts at the Lenox Hill hospital. So he builds an old friend. 

He recycles parts from the M.A.Y. LMD and uses FRIDAY’s recordings of Mr. Stark from the Malibu, the Tower, the Compound. The Cabin. There’s years of archival material to sift through, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, he gives FRIDAY the approval to load it all into the memory bank and start the printing. 

From the goatee, to the lush strand of brown hair, the long lashes, it all comes together. And when Tony blinks awake, he smiles, and says, “Kid.”

Peter lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stumbles forward, eyes blurry with tears. It’s Tony, and Peter can smell the tang of metal and something like burning plastic but he doesn’t care. He’ll fix that later. There’s still a bottle of Mr. Stark’s cologne in the master suite. Almost perfect, almost alright. The wound in his chest is already stitching itself.

Peter wraps his arms around him and sobs when Tony pulls him closer, tighter, resting their foreheads together. 

“Pete? Kid, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Hold me, just hold me.”

Tony hums, rocking the balls of his feet, and they find themselves a tangle of limbs on the lab’s remaining sofa. Peter holds onto Tony’s waist and cries.

* * *

He lets Tony pick out the ornament for the new tree. The Spider-Man figure hangs beside the miniature Stark Tower he purchased last year. 

Christmas passes and Peter doesn’t stick to his promise. 

New Year comes a few days later and they’re on the rooftop, sitting by on the balcony.

“Since when did you take up smoking?” Tony asks, offering the palm of his hand. 

“Since you died. Don’t get mad, but Clint was the one who gave me the first one.” Peter passes him the cigarette, and what a thrilling thing it is for Tony to rest his lips in the same place Peter sucked. Smoke fills the air and it’s an unpleasant smell he’s gotten used to clinging onto his hair, his fingertips. A mix of white airy whisps fills the space between them.

“Goddammit, Hawkeye.” 

It’s January again and the snowfall is light enough that Peter doesn’t break out his winter coat. He runs warm anyway. But Tony is bundled in a thick scarf, gloves, and a beanie. It’s jarring because Peter’s always seen him in three-piece suits, pristine and untouchable or in joggers and tank tops with grease all over his forearms. Peter decides that he likes this look. Everything Tony Stark does and will do, Peter will love. Sometimes he doesn’t know how there’s still so much love in his body. It’s like that book he read in elementary school. His only copy burnt in the Queens apartment. _The Giving Tree._ He likes to think Mr. Stark’s like that. 

Love is a well that doesn’t run dry.

They can hear the countdown from the penthouse. All of New York seems to be in Times Square. 

3\. 2. 1. 

Another year has gone by, but this time, Tony stands beside him. The world moves on and seasons change but he’s in that category of people who find it exceedingly difficult to swim out of the despair they cover themselves in. Like a blanket on a cold night. Up it goes to cover their faces. Blind them from the light. Sometimes, the dark can offer comfort in a way that dawn never can, no matter how much it tries.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter returns home with a bullet lodged in his shoulder. KAREN informs him that he has three broken ribs. 

It’ll heal, it always does, so he’s not worried. But the look of Tony waiting for him on the roof leaves him breathless.

“KAREN and FRIDAY told me what happened.” Tony shakes his head and extends his hand for Peter to take. Gently, he pulls Peter to his side, removes the mask, examining his face. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

Peter snorts. “I don’t think that’s possible.” 

“Too candid for your own good, Spiderling.” Tony rests his hand on Peter’s lower back and they start the walk to the penthouse. Tony leads him to the master suite bathroom, sits him on the toilet seat, and sinks to the floor to pull out the first aid kit.

It’s like every LMD Peter builds knows how to do first aid. Maybe it came with the territory. He doesn’t think he programmed it. Maybe their original versions just cared for him and it transferred the data into their models. 

Peter bites his lip. He still wants the real thing, but this is what he has. Peter strips off the suit until it reaches his belly button, hissing when Tony begins digging out the bullet. Peter closes his eyes, humming. He smells Tony and that’s enough. 

He dozes on and off, content on the feel of Tony’s hands on his shoulder, stitching him back together. Tony ducks down, kisses his shoulder, and says, “All better.”

“With you, yeah.” Peter opens his eyes and Tony is near. 

Peter has the bravery to say this because this isn’t Tony Stark. It’s a version of what Peter wants, and that’s just it, isn’t it? He can’t help but doubt whether he programmed this. Whether FRIDAY slipped up, whether he wrote in the code and pressed that memory into a little box in the corner of his mind, piling denial over denial. 

Tony cards a hand through Peter’s sweat soaked hair, murmuring about how he was worried and that one day he might take the suit out for a spin and fight along Spider-Man.

Tony runs a bath, gets on his knees, and pulls the rest of the suit from Peter’s body. He helps Peter up and deposits him into the tub. 

“Tony, Tony,” Peter begins, staring up at this man who makes him fall apart. He cries, not bothering to wipe his face. He’s a mess. “I’m tired.”

“I know, baby, I know.” Tony sighs, strips off his clothes, and gets in, placing himself behind Peter. He takes the wash cloth and draws patterns on Peter’s arms. 

It’s enough. This is fine. 

“Hold me, just hold me, Tony, please.” 

That’s all Peter ever asks for. 

* * *

He talks to Tony about the last few years. He peels his skin back, shows him where he’s been stabbed, where he's been bruised, where he’s been hit by a homemade bomb. There are no scars, but the injuries still hurt and Tony hushes him, kisses his temples and eyelids, and tells Peter that he is brave. 

Their lives go on. It sucks and it’s unfair because Tony can’t leave the Tower. It’ll attract attention. There will be questions and then people will find out that Peter Parker is a fucked up little shit for building an android of Tony Stark. 

They stay in, and Tony doesn’t mind. He tinkers in the lab with FRIDAY, plays with DUM-E, and opens Mr. Stark’s unfinished projects. Of course he does. They’re the same, even if one of them is dead and the other is made of mechanical parts. 

“Really, it’s fine. I’ve spent my life out and about. I’ve seen the world. I’ve been to space. I’m happy to be a homebody now.” Tony winks, kisses his cheek, and plays a movie. 

“Still, I’m sorry.” Peter rests his head on Tony’s shoulder, pressing them close together, side to side, hips attached. He doesn’t correct Tony nor does he tell him that it isn’t him who spent three weeks floating around a spaceship after Titan. 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m here for _you_. That’s why I’m here, kid. It’s all for you.”

Tony already knows he’s not a real man. He’s not the real man, and it’s alright. It’s temporary. Peter will put him to rest.

He pushes the thought away, straddles Tony’s lap, and listens to the mechanical beat of his heart. There it goes, whirling, whirling, spinning like a record. 

“You’re missing the movie, kid.” Tony tuts, but puts his hand on Peter’s waist. The other goes to rub circles on Peter’s back.

He wraps his arms around Tony’s neck, resting his head on the sofa cushions. “I just miss you. You, just you.”

* * *

In late April, MJ has a free day and she demands that Peter meet for a walk around the High Line.

“I feel like it’s been years since I’ve seen you.” She flicks her sunglasses down and watches him. 

Peter passes her an iced coffee and rolls her eyes. “Busy, busy. Look at us, being adults. Tell me about medical school.”

“I don’t want to talk about school, organs, hospitals, or anything related to medicine.” She makes a disgusted face and sucks on the straw. 

It’s getting warmer, too warm. It’s like they didn’t have spring at all. Peter lights a cigarette, inhales, and looks up at the sky. He wants to patrol earlier tonight, so he can get home to Tony because they promised to go over the schematics of a new Spider-Man suit. Both their brains like to work until late in the evening, but after swinging around Queens, he’s too exhausted for anything other than rehashing the night's event over coffee and a cancer stick. Tony indulges him, watching Peter smoke in the balcony while he lies in bed with his tablet. 

“Fine,” Peter says as they pass a mural of Iron Man and Captain America in 22nd Street, battle-ready. “Tell me about...what you do when you’re not studying.”

“I’m always studying,” she replies, pausing to observe the streaks and hues of the painting. MJ turns to Peter and tilts her head. It’s true. She’s studying, whether it's for her school or to understand human behavior, Peter doesn't know. He’s comfortable under her intense scrutinization. The point is proven when she says, “You look…”

“Like shit?” Peter tries with a grin. Ahead, there’s a permanent sculpture of Iron Man on 30th Street. The color of the armor isn't right, but the artist tried their best. No one can make a copy of the armor or Tony Stark. Not even Peter.

MJ shakes her head, slurps the rest of her drink, before turning to Peter. “Okay, I guess. You look alright. I wouldn’t say happy because I don’t know what that looks like on you, to be honest.” She huffs. “I don’t think you were ever happy.”

“No, no, that’s not true,” Peter protests because MJ is wrong. He has happy memories. He does. There were trips to Coney Island with Aunt May and Uncle Ben, sleepovers with Ned, walks with MJ...except, he realizes those are recalls of a past life, pieces of history from years ago. “MJ, I know what it feels like to be happy. I do, you know.”

“Maybe that’s why I don’t see it on you.” She shrugs, grabbing Peter’s empty cup and tossing it to the nearest pin. “But now. You look okay.” 

“I _am_ alright. Fine. I’m good. I’m —”

“Yeah, yeah.” She smiles, links their arms and walks forward. “I’m glad, Parker, I really am.”

* * *

Dr. Ock teams up with Electro and Sandman on a Thursday in early summer. 

Sand fills the streets of Park Ave, and the New Avengers should be on their way because Peter can't handle this alone. KAREN's already announced that the quinjet is flying at full speed from the Compound when Peter gets a truck thrown at him. He swings back, kicking Sandman on the chest, but he falls through and his punches aren’t effective. 

Electro runs up, electrifying the web shooter from his left wrist, and Peter grits his teeth, shooting up to a crumbling building. Electro attacks, fists going to the concrete, breaking the street in half, the force of it throws an abandoned bus towards Peter. Winded, he stumbles up. 

Dr. Ock descends on them, wrapping one of her tentacle arms around Peter's ankles, pulling him high up. Another of the arms wrap around his neck and she's choking him. Maybe it's best to die. Yeah, the New Avengers will be here soon and they can handle them. Let Peter finally rest. 

She tightens her lip, smiling, and Peter tunes out her monologue because he’s tired of having to hear it. He closes his eyes and then —

A shadow, quick as lightning descends. It must be the quinjet, except from behind his closed eyelids, it’s not large or looming. 

"Can't be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man if there's no neighborhood, kid, and really, this fight is ruining Park Ave. I've got a Tower down the street I'd like to keep standing."

It’s a familiar voice. 

“Holy fucking shit, is that —”

“It’s —”

“Someone else has to be piloting!”

“But who — who could —”

Peter opens his eyes. There’s Iron Man flying right above Dr. Ock and Electro. He’s got his arms up, repulsor charged. “Hey, kid.” 

Peter could sob with relief, but two of Dr. Ock’s arms slap him back to back and the grip on his torso tightens. Sandman roars, body expanding and a large fists goes for Iron Man. 

"Oh, save it. I just got here and I already have to deal with mediocre bullshit. What's the point of saving the universe if I have to deal with you?" Peter could almost imagine Tony rolling his eyes inside the suit. 

Iron Man blasts three fire hydrants out and onto the street, aiming them at Sandman. Then in quick, efficient moves, he flies over to Dr. Ock, punches her core and pulls off the tentacles choking Peter. Iron Man makes it look easy, and Peter wonders when Tony decided to leave the Tower. 

They agreed that it would be chaos if Iron Man showed up again. 

“I can’t have you dying on me again, kid,” Iron Man says, pulling Peter to his side and flying him. “Besides, you should be wearing a nanotech suit. Have a new web shooter installed so you don’t run out of web fluid. FRIDAY, do me the honors —” 

Something hits Peter from behind and it’s almost like that time he climbed up a spaceship. A new suit covers his body immediately, and when he looks down, there’s a fresh shooter. “When’d you have time to do this?”

Iron Man raises both arms, repulsors something behind him, but all the while, his attention hasn’t strayed from Peter. “Oh, you know, I had about five years after Titan to go over all the ways I could have improved your suit, if —”

“Hey! Are you really Iron Man?” Someone yells below. 

“Of course, he’s Iron Man!”

“But back from the dead? Or was he just hiding all this time?!” A woman pulls out a camera and starts running as Electro generates a bright light and aims it at the line of civilians.

“Less talking, more running!” Iron Man flies to Electro and Peter, finally free, swings to kick Dr. Ock in the face with a grin.

The New Avengers drop down from the quinjet and the fight continues.

* * *

“Spider-Man, come into the Compound for a debrief.” Captain Danvers has her hands on her hips and she’s observing Iron Man. “And please explain to me how the suit is being piloted.”

Peter didn’t even know how. Tony must have seen them on television and decided he’s had enough of watching Peter get his ass beat bloody.

“Carol, please. Give me and Underoos until tomorrow. I’m wiped.”

Captain Danvers raises a quizzical eyebrow. Peter thinks she might be impressed. “So it wasn’t all talk when they called you genius.”

“Glad you dropped the whole ‘playboy, philanthropist’ part.” Iron Man laughs, and it's such a disjointed sound. It’s almost like how Peter feels. He’s already coming up with an excuse for the New Avengers. He’ll tell them he was tinkering in the lab and got FRIDAY to pilot the suit. Mr. Stark’s done that several times. It would be no big deal. 

“I was referring to Spider-Man, actually.” Captain Danvers shakes her head. “You’ll have some explaining to do. Fury and Hill will be present, too.”

Peter nods, peering at Iron Man. The suit is Mark 85. It’s the first time in almost a decade he’d seen the suit of armor in battle. Not since the battle at the Compound. 

Peter watched Mr. Stark die in that suit. He wonders why Tony chose to wear that today. Did Tony rebuild it? Peter swallows and looks away. 

He examines the debris on the floor. There's a fallen structure in the middle of the road, and piles of cars and taxis on the walkway. Peter sighs and rolls his shoulders. 

“Come on, kid, back to the Tower. We saved the day, leave the clean up for the Avengers.” Iron Man’s fingers wiggle invitingly.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Peter replies. Just as he’s about to web away, Iron Man stands close to him so they’re chest to chest. He wraps an ironclad arm around Peter’s shoulder and and the other around his waist. “Hold on tight.”

Iron Man flies up at full speed, chuckling and making circles in the area. Peter wraps his arms around Iron Man’s neck and rests his face on the armor’s chest. Below them, pedestrians look on, and there’s going to be questions to answer tomorrow. But for now, Peter lets the cold of the armor rest on his cheeks. He’s fine. He’s safe, and maybe happy.

* * *

The flight back to the Tower is short, a total of only a few minutes. But when the suit drops to the Tower, Peter doesn’t let go. “I could have swung back, you know,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I suppose. But if you swung back, I’d have no excuse to hold you.” 

Peter smiles and kisses the glow of the arc reactor. He slides his hand down the suit’s torso, feeling its heavy plates under his fingertips. He tilts his head and intertwines their fingers before walking backwards with a smile. “You looked really, really cool out there.”

“Really, really cool, huh?” He tapped the reactor twice with his free hand. The suit slides from his body, disintegrates in seconds, and returns to the arc reactor. Back to Tony's heart. 

Peter traces the smile on his lips, he wants to trace the lines with his own mouth, his tongue. Instead, he shakes his head and pulls Tony into the penthouse. They crash on the sofa and Peter strips off his mask. 

“Kid, look at you. Wow.” Tony takes Peter’s head between his hands, pulling their faces close together. They’re just inches apart. In a weak moment, he closes his eyes, presses his cheek onto Tony’s warm palms, and sighs. 

“You saw me just this afternoon.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been longer than that, Pete.” Mr. Stark hugs him and runs his fingers over his back. Peter leans into it, humming. He leans up, chin raising when — 

There’s footsteps coming from the bedroom, followed by a gasp. “Oh, shit.” 

Peter turns quickly, pushes Tony behind him, fingers on his web shooters. Eyes wide, he finds _Tony_.

If that’s Tony, the Tony he made, then — 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter tries. “What. FRIDAY? Could you please run a scan?” 

“Based on the metrics I have, I can confirm that is Mr. Stark. Good to have you back, Boss.” 

“Fuck. Fuck, what.” Peter scrubs a hand through his hair, looking back and forth between Mr. Stark and Tony. “It’s really you?”

“Well, who else would it be?”

“Multiverse?” Peter shrugs, helplessly. “Skrulls?”

“Try again. I programmed the Skrull detector into FRIDAY a long time ago. FRIDAY would inform me immediately if timelines were set astray. Do you have something you wanna tell me, kid?” Mr. Stark crosses his arms, and there’s a worrying look on his face. 

He doesn’t look angry. Peter’s never seen him enraged — upset and utterly broken down, yes. However, Mr. Stark never directed anger on Peter. This isn’t different and it hurts to see the disappointment on his face. Once again, Peter feels like that little kid from Queens taking on the Vulture and yelling at Mr. Stark. 

“Explain, Peter.” 

“Uh,” Peter begins, staring at Tony in the Black Sabbath shirt and sweats. His hair is still wet and he pauses when he spots Peter with Mr. Stark. “I didn’t go to MIT so I never got the chance to try the burgers at Dante’s fresh out of the kitchen?”

Mr. Stark looks at him, lips in a disapproving line. “Kid.”

Tony pads over and grins, lazy and sardonic. His eyebrows are raised and it’s that I-warned-you-moment. He drops to the sofa. “It’s my predecessor and maker.”

“Maker? What did you do? FRIDAY, pull up the stats.” A holoscreen appears in front of them. Mr. Stark reads the metrics quickly, fingers flicking one screen away and pulling another. His gaze is focused. Peter feels breathless. “I see you also programmed sarcasm. You had FRIDAY load up all the data from everything up until I snapped the gauntlet, huh? It’s excellent. I’ll give you that,” Mr. Stark says, examining Tony perched on the sofa. “Made sure it was true to form, huh. You know, when I said I wanted you to be better than me, this isn’t what I meant.”

On the leather sofa, Tony tilts his head and hums. “Well, Tony. My god, it’s so weird talking to myself. In Peter’s defense, he’s not the only one who made robot friends because they were lonely.” He holds up a hand and wiggles his index finger with a raised eyebrow. “Ah, no, don’t deny it. I’m you, and because of that I know you. How you work — or me. Wow, this is confusing. Alright. Don’t be pissed.”

“I’m not pissed,” Mr. Stark hisses, eyes flashing to Tony. He breathes in and out. Peter counts the quick rise and fall of his chest. “I’m not, alright?”

“Is it really you?” Peter closes his fists to stop himself from shaking. His knees buckle and he finds himself on the floor. In an instant, both Mr. Stark and Tony are beside him. One’s tilting his face forward, and the other his petting his hair. It’s hard to breath and it’s not just because he’s fractured his ribs. “Mr. Stark? 

Mr. Stark shrugs, eyes never leaving Peter. He has both of his hands on Peter’s head again. Examining. Appraising, maybe. “You’ve grown, Pete. I’m glad to see you alive.”

Behind them, Tony snorts and laughs. “Hey, I did say I’m you, so. I can laugh. I know what you’re thinking.”

“How? How are you here? What happened?”

Mr. Stark shoots his counterpart an unamused look. “I don’t know. I woke up this afternoon in a field close to the Compound. I activated the suit and FRIDAY informed me that you were getting your ass kicked in Midtown.”

“And you came?” Peter says, clearing his throat. His eyes are burning. 

“Well, what was I going to do? Have tea with Carol? You needed me, so I came.”

* * *

Dr. Strange opens the double doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum. He flips the book with distracted fingers, making a displeased sound before looking at them. “Ah. Good. I imagine you’d like some explanations. Come in. Let’s have tea.”

“I could repulsor your ass to the Astral Plane. Is this what you saw in your alternate future? Kill me off for what, a decade or so, and have me come back?" Mr. Stark and Peter step in, following Dr. Strange up the stairs and into the first sitting room. The flames on the fireplace roars. Nevermind that it’s summer.

Wong offers biscuits and tea, then drops a book beside Dr. Strange. 

“We could have used your help today, Dr. Strange,” Peter says, settling beside Mr. Stark on the love seat. He wills his heart to return to a normal rate. 

“I was dealing with another matter, Mr. Parker. Plus, I was confident that your lot would be able to handle it.”

“They almost took down half of Midtown!” 

“Yes, well.” Dr. Strange stands with his cape billowing and pours them a cup of tea. He pulls a book from the shelf, magics it to levitate along with the six other books. “I was quite busy.”

“With what? Off to see the Wizard of Oz?”

“Very funny, Stark,” Dr. Strange says, unimpressed. “If you must know, I was dealing with something related solely to your reappearance.”

“And what’s that?” Mr. Stark makes a face at the tea and sets the cup down. He snags a biscuit. “Fuck, am I hungry. Kid, what do you wanna have for dinner when we get home?”

“Stark, focus!” Dr. Strange throws a book towards them. It stops inches from their face. There’s a picture of a demon. The text is unreadable. “Cosmic Cube.”

“Cosmic Cube? You mean the Tesseract?” Mr. Stark turns to Peter with an expectant look. “You’ll have to walk me through the last nine years, Pete.” 

“Yes. A demon named D'Spayre drew on the Cube and the grief that was generated by Iron Man's death. As a result, the Cube granted the wish of the people who yearned for it.”

Mr. Stark snorts. “You mean to say that the world missed me so much that I came back to life because they wished it?”

“Grief is a powerful thing.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll bite. What about this demon then?”

“It’s handled.” Dr. Strange waves a distracted hand. “Hence, why I wasn’t able to join you lot in destroying Park Ave this afternoon.”

“So, that’s it? Mr. Stark is here? Alive? He’s not —”

A cloud of pale blue smoke covers them for a fleeting moment. It wraps around Mr. Stark’s entire body, then vanishes. “All checked. He’s alive. Organs are intact and brain activity is functional.”

“So, what, you expect me to walk out of here, go home, learn about the last decade, and tell the world that Tony Stark is back?”

“Correct. That’s an excellent agenda.” Dr. Strange snaps a finger, the tea and biscuit vanishes, and Peter and Mr. Stark are deposited from the sofa. “Now, I have work to do. Please excuse me and try not to have a crisis. You’re alive, so go live, Stark.”

“As easy as that?” Mr. Stark asks.

“Indeed. There isn’t a catch. The Cube isn’t asking for anything in return. Apparently, it’s had enough of the world crying for you,” Dr. Strange replies, flicking a hand that takes them back to the entrance foyer. “Goodbye.”

Mr. Stark turns to Peter, shaking his head, with a laugh. “Well shit. I guess this tops the time I built a suit of armor in a cave or when I developed time travel.”

Peter hails a cab, wishing for silence. His senses are going haywire. The bustle of the city, the sound of the street lights turning, the honking of the vehicles, the laugh and chatter of the pedestrians makes his face feel hot. He feels warmth from his toes to his head, and when he turns to the left, Mr. Stark is beside him, smiling, slinging an arm on his shoulder and opening the cab. He climbs in after Peter.

“Stark Tower,” Peter says, leaning back against the cracked leather seats. He closes his eyes, breathes. Mr. Stark is here. Alive. Beside Peter. There’s so much to do, so much to be done. He’ll have to say goodbye to Tony and he’ll have to pack his shit tonight. Fuck, no, he has to clean the penthouse first. Have FRIDAY and KAREN delete his projects. He can sleep at the SHIELD lab tonight. It’s fine. It’ll be alright.

Peter pats his jacket, pulls a cigarette from the case and lights it. He rolls the window half way down and inhales. He watches the cab pass a series of skyscrapers. He can’t look at Mr. Stark. He doesn’t want to answer questions about what the fuck Peter was thinking, what he’s done, what he’s —

“Hey,” Mr. Stark says, voice soft, so much like all those years ago when he’d wake Peter up for falling asleep in the lab. “I can see your head turning.” He heaves a heavy breath and pulls Peter’s free hand to his chest. Mr. Stark’s hands are calloused and there’s a blister on the end of his index finger. “I’m not upset, Pete. I’m shocked. I mean, shit, the last thing I remember was snapping. Rhodey. Pepper. You, you crying. Fuck. You telling me that we won. Then, next thing I know, I’m here and FRIDAY’s giving me the date and a run down of what happened with Pepper and Morgan. Steve Rogers leaving and passing the shield to Wilson. Rhodey!. Call me crazy, but I’m demanding Rhodey and Carol get married again so I can be the best man.”

“Mr. Stark.” A sob escapes Peter, hearing him talk, fast, excited, feels like a punch to the gut. With shaky hands, he takes another inhale, puts out the cig on the ashtray, and shoves the stub in his pocket. “You’re alive.”

“I am,” Tony measures out, intertwining their fingers. “And you smoke.”

Peter offers a smile. “Yeah.”

“You’ve grown. Changed, maybe. But, still the same. Big heart.” Tony squeezes their fingers. Once, twice. “I’m not pissed, by the way. But I do require explanations, Pete.”

“I know.” 

“Alright. It’s fine, kid.” Mr. Stark laughs, and his eyes dance and there’s wrinkles on his face, but he hasn’t aged since the last time Peter saw him. “There’s time. I want to know everything, Pete.”

“FRIDAY can —”

Mr. Stark shakes his head, hushing him. “Nope. From your mouth. Your lips. You tell me. I’ll listen.” 

* * *

They direct the cabbie to the private garage and take the elevator that has access to the penthouse. A quick check on his phone reveals he has seven missed calls from Pepper and a couple of texts from both MJ and Ned. They’ll have to deal with Iron Man making the news soon. 

“I was thinking I’d see Pep and Morgan tomorrow. FRIDAY said they’ve relocated from the cabin to Long Island. I’ll take the suit. She’ll probably want to kill me if I show up right now, unannounced, but I called them while flying to Midtown earlier. Pepper thought it was a joke until FRIDAY sent her the confirmation and then she promised to kill me herself. Pete, tell me about Morgan. Oh, she was so happy to hear from me. She had all of that teenage snark too. FRIDAY pulled up some photographs. I can’t — wow.” Mr. Stark steps out of the elevator. “Home sweet home. You didn’t change much, kid.”

How could he? Peter wanted to keep things pristine, just like how it was when he used to run from school to the Tower’s lab. Mr. Stark takes in the room, walking from the living room to the kitchen, examining what he didn’t have time for earlier. He opens the fridge, closes it, then turns to fiddle with the coffee machine. 

“Oh.” Mr. Stark takes the photograph of them sitting on the counter by the coffee mugs. 

Peter pads over. He wants nothing more than to hug Mr. Stark from behind, stand on tip toes and rest his chin on Mr. Stark’s shoulders. He contains himself and stands beside him. “Pepper gave it to me. Housewarming gift.”

“She asked you to move in?”

“Yeah. My place in Queens kind of burnt down.”

“Kind of?” Mr. Stark turns to him, eyes sharp. “What do you mean, kind of?”

“Well, it burnt down.”

“And then?” He raises an eyebrow and sets the picture frame back. The coffee starts and its scent fills the room. 

Sheepish, Peter scratches his head. “Then, I started sleeping at the SHIELD lab until Fury and Pepper had an intervention.”

“Rough couple of years?”

He nods, croaking, “Yeah. But, well. That’s life. Kept moving even after you —”

Mr. Stark pulls Peter to his chest, arms around him just like how they flew from battle earlier. Peter presses close, ignoring the way his body shakes and how he breaks into a sob.

“May?”

Peter shakes his head, staining Mr. Stark’s shirt with his tears. “Aneurysm.”

“Shit, kid, I’m sorry.” Mr. Stark kisses the top of his head. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Pete.”

“It’s not…it’s...life. Sometimes it can be a little fucked. Just when I thought. You know,” he says, talking to Mr. Stark’s shirt before finding the courage to look up. “I couldn’t understand how the world could move on without you. Then, you’re here. And Dr. Strange said we willed it. That’s how much I —” Peter shakes his head, not sure how to continue. Peter wants to tell him how much he burned for him, how he had willed him into existence by building him piece by piece. Instead, Peter says,“I missed you.”

“You got me, kid. I’m here. I’m here.” Mr. Stark kisses his forehead, his temples. He kisses the tears sliding down Peter’s cheekbones, then he takes Peter's face, and looks into his eyes. Deep, brown, forgiving, filled with life. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

* * *

He doesn’t know how long they embrace. In any case, it’s too short. Peter never wants to stop holding Mr. Stark. 

The penthouse elevators ring with Tony marching out, announcing, “I ordered burgers. Ha, because that's exactly what I'd like to eat if I find myself resurrected. Asked them to make the fries extra crispy so it didn’t get soggy on the way over." 

Mr. Stark guides him to the dining table, and it’s odd because all Peter’s ever wanted is Tony Stark and he has _two_ flanking his sides. Their mannerisms are the same, from the way they quirk their lips before a bite to the way they wipe their mouths. They _are_ the same.

Tony and Mr. Stark quiz each other, an attempt to see the effectiveness of LMDs. Mr. Stark concedes and tells Peter to take a bath, and it's obvious they both want him gone for a conversation, so he leaves, but just before, both Mr. Stark and Tony reach for him at the same time. Both hands, one calloused from years of work, the other, softer with synthetic skin. They both caress and squeeze his wrist before they realize what they’re doing.

“Was SHIELD’s LMDs this good, or was it just you, kid?”

“Obviously, it’s him,” Tony rolls his eyes. “SHIELD was at least ten years behind.”

Peter flees to his room — the master suite, Mr. Stark’s old room, face heating at the implication. He’ll give the room back to Mr. Stark. He’ll clear his things after the shower. Desperately, he wants to listen to their conversation, hear what they have to say because it’s evident that both Tony and Mr. Stark are discussing him. He bites his lip and swallows down the demand to have FRIDAY pull the feeds. Peter enters the shower, strips, and lets the water wash over him. 

* * *

In the lab, Peter hears the tail-end of a conversation he probably should tune out. “He missed you. That’s the reason. He’ll tell you himself if you ask, but you have to do the asking and —” 

Tony shuts his mouth, and waves him over with a soft, resigned smile. 

Mr. Stark sits up from the stool, expression guarded. He nods to his counterpart, shakes hands, and then says, “I’ll be upstairs.” 

Once the lab’s doors close, Peter stands in front of Tony until they’re chest to chest. Tony wipes the tears on Peter’s face with his thumbs. “See you, kiddo.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? I served my purpose. You got the real thing here. It’s me, Peter. You hear that. He’s me. I’m him. All of this,” Tony says, gesturing to the lab, “ make it count, alright?” Tony wraps him up in an embrace, like so many times he’s held Peter after a nightmare. “You need to promise me that you’ll stop apologizing. Stop carrying the world’s burden on your back. You’re not Atlas, you know.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Peter says. “You’re the bastard that snapped the gauntlet because you carried the universe in that heart of yours.”

“And you’re in there. I carry you,” he taps his chest. “Ask him, alright? Ask him about those years after Titan.” 

Peter nods, helpless when Tony takes his hand and leads him to the port. FRIDAY activates the machine. Slowly, Tony is peeled away and reduced to parts, but it’s Peter who feels flayed open, like his heart is being pulled out of a bullet wound in his stomach.

* * *

Mr. Stark insists on taking the extra guest room, so Peter lies propped up in bed, smoking a cigarette. It’s the first time he’s sleeping alone in months. He should get used to it. But Tony would hold him late into the night, his chest plastered to Peter’s back, both of them sharing a pillow. Sometimes, Peter would fall asleep with his cheek on Tony’s chest, head tucked as close as he can to Tony’s face. 

The summer breeze enters through the cracked balcony doors. They’re high enough that he doesn’t smell the heat radiating from the concrete. He’s flicking through the holo-screens, lighting his third cigarette, when there’s a knock on the door. 

“Kid?”

Peter holds his breath. “Yeah?”

“Are you still awake? I can see the light from the screens. You shouldn’t work in bed, you know.”

The clock flashes 2:13am.

“I couldn’t sleep.” 

“He said it’d be like that.”

“What?” Peter sits up, turns off the screens, and puts his stick on the ashtray by the bedside table. 

When he opens the door, Mr. Stark looks wrecked. 

“Can I come in?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, pushing forward and dropping to the unoccupied side of the bed. Mr. Stark lifts the covers and slides in, giving Peter an expectant look. “So apparently, I’ve been letting you smoke in bed.” He pats Peter’s side, fluffs up the pillows. “Come on. I’ll share one with you. But just one because Dr. Strange said all my organs are functioning and I’d rather not fuck it up.”

Exhausted, Peter walks over and gets under the covers. Mr. Stark is close. Peter wants to stay in this shared heat forever. He reaches for the cigarette and passes it to Mr. Stark. 

He wraps his lips on the stick and sucks, and Peter feels his face heat. The force of desire shocks him. Mr. Stark is still staring at him when he blows the smoke out. The sharp smell of menthol fills the air. 

“Mr. Stark?”

“Hmm?” Mr. Stark scoots forward, his thick index and middle finger holding the cigarette over Peter’s lips. 

His mouth gets too close to Mr. Stark’s fingers. Peter wonders what it’s like to kiss it, have it inside his mouth. Inside him. He inhales, exhales, and they share the cigarette until it’s just the stub, all the while, Mr. Stark presents it to him with a smile. He leans over Peter and deposits it on the ashtray, then leans back on the pillows, one arm twisted above his head. Mr. Stark is just in his tank top and joggers, and he’s seen this so many times on Tony. But to watch Mr. Stark fluttering his eyes open and close in tiredness is another ordeal. Peter’s heart needs to stop threatening to climb out of his chest and shove itself beside Mr. Stark’s own. 

“What are you doing here?” Peter says, turning to face Mr. Stark. The darkness makes him a little braver. 

“He told me. Or, I guess, I told myself that you had trouble sleeping alone.”

“He held me. I just… Sometimes you need to be held, you know? So you don’t feel like you’re alone. I got used to being beside someone, yeah.” Peter swallows, inching a little closer. His heart breaks and mends itself when Mr. Stark rests a hand on his cheek. “You. I got used to sleeping next to you.”

Mr. Stark traces the line of his face, his brows, the slant of his nose, and then his fingers outline Peter’s lips, and jaw. He closes the distance between them, resting his head over Peter’s own. “Last time I saw you, we only had a moment. And the time before that, we were in Titan, and I watched you fade. Turn to dust. Just atoms that filled the planet’s atmosphere.”

“I’m here, I’m here, Mr. Stark.” He presses his face against Mr. Stark’s chest, breathing in the smell of his aftershave. 

“You’re alive, kid. I’m so proud of you. Everything you’ve done. You’ve lived. You’re alive. Shit, that’s all I ever wanted. I wanted you to live.”

Peter shakes his head, choking on the words he wants to say. His tears fall and there’s a wetness above him, so much so that he doesn’t realize whether the salty drops on his face are from Mr. Stark or from him. 

“I wanted you alive, too. All these years, that’s all I wanted. That’s why —” There’s so many reasons Peter could say. He’s justified his actions every single night. He was lonely. He missed Mr. Stark. He was tired. “I needed closure. It wasn’t malicious intent. I just really fucking missed you. I lived every second with my body itching, hurting like it was on fire because you snapped the gauntlet and I saw you. I saw you die.” 

“Peter, you feel that?” Mr. Stark takes Peter’s hand and places it on his chest. “No mechanical parts. That’s me. Flesh. Human, so fucking human I could die tomorrow. I’m here. I’m not-” Mr. Stark exhales, digs their laced hands to his chest. The arc reactor’s flashes a blue light. “I’m not going. I’m staying here. With you. Alright? So you don’t have to get used to sleeping alone.” 

“I have nightmares.”

Mr. Stark kisses his eyelids. “So do I.”

“Alright,” Peter says, twisting to look up at Mr. Stark. The dull light from the RT makes him look ethereal. Otherworldly, and everything Peter’s ever wanted. “Can I hold you, please, can I just— ” He breaks off, catching Mr. Stark’s eyes. The expression on his face is understanding, soft, and he’s here but Peter still misses him. He wants to shed his skin and climb inside Mr. Stark, find a place in his chest, in his brain, and take root there. Grow, until Mr. Stark can’t possibly push him away. He holds Tony close, feels his heart beat. Flesh, real, organic.

Peter wraps his arms around Mr. Stark’s neck and torso, pushing their bodies flushed together. Mr. Stark hums, settling a hand on Peter’s waist. 

“Mr. Stark — Tony, I—” Peter wants to cut his vocal chords because they are useless. He is not good with words. He stumbles on syllables and sometimes his sentences don’t make sense because he gets too flustered and anxiety chokes him down until he can only speak half sentences, half truths. “You’re all I want. I — goodnight.” 

Mr. Stark smiles, kisses his cheek, and it’s so close to Peter’s lips, he might as well have pressed their mouths together. “Goodnight, baby.”

* * *

The shower is running, easing him in and out of sleep. There’s a dip on the bed, then a hand pushing his hair back. Mr. Stark tugs his ear. “I’m going to see Pep and Maguna. I’ll be back.”

Peter blinks his eyes open to see Mr. Stark dressed in a plain dark shirt and a leather jacket. He swallows the want burning his throat. He wants nothing more than to pull Mr. Stark close, hold him, shed off his clothes and have him return to bed. He wants to beg Tony to stay a little longer, hold him, remind Peter that this is real. But he has no right to ask. Not really. “Alright.”

Mr. Stark thumbs the space below his eyes. In a soft voice, he says, “Get some rest, kid.” He laughs and gives Peter a mock-stern look. “You still need to recover from yesterday. Stay and welcome me home, alright?”

Peter mumbles a protest on the pillow. He leans against the palm on his face. Feeling reckless, he turns up to kiss Mr. Stark’s wrist and falls back asleep.

* * *

Peter spends the rest of the morning and afternoon fretting around the workshop. He had trouble swallowing and keeping his food down, afraid that Mr. Stark’s return is nothing but a dream. He drinks a pot of coffee, rolls his cigarettes, and smokes an equivalent of a pack. He turns on the TV but all the stations are covering the fight from yesterday and questions about who’s piloting the Iron Man suit.

Peter ignores the messages on his phone and Captain Danver’s request to meet the team at the Compound. He returns to the master suite, heart hammering when he glances at the bed and remembers how he and Mr. Stark spent the night wrapped up in each other's arms. 

Peter makes the bed, sits on top of it, and bites his knuckles to stop himself from crying.

He wonders what Mr. Stark is thinking with Pepper and Morgan, whether he’ll move out of the Tower to be closer to them, or if he’ll ask Peter to leave. He circles the room, looks down at the balcony, and then ends up cleaning the bathroom. 

FRIDAY tries to distract him with questions about work and his SHIELD projects, but Peter has too much to think about. When Mr. Stark still isn’t back, he goes to the lab, pulls out a couple of suits that need fixing.

Then, as the sun sets, Mr. Stark calls in and announces that he’s home. Peter runs from the lab to the living room, out of breath when he says, “Mr. Stark, hi.” Peter closes the distance between them, makes a move to put his arms around Mr. Stark’s waist, and then thinks better of it and aborts the movement. 

“Hey, that won’t do.” Mr. Stark tugs him into an embrace.

“Welcome home.” There’s the sharp smell of the suit as he rests his cheek on the nano-casing of the RT. “How’d it go?”

“Well, Pep and I planned to announce my return, but we’ll need the wizard to give us soundbites for the public. The board is gonna go crazy, of course. Pepper’s still going to be CEO. We’re fixing up our schedules for the days I’d get Morgan. Oh, and I met the fiance. Cool guy.” Mr. Stark laughs, the shake of his body makes Peter grip him harder. 

“Are you okay with that?” 

“Of course. She asked if I wanted to give her away at the wedding. And before you ask me, no, I’m not going to swoop into Pepper’s life and ask her for another go. Life happens, kid. It doesn’t always listen to your plans. That’s what I learned after Titan. There’s always gonna be love there. But me and her, we’ve always...had an understanding, you could say, about love.” 

“I feel like it listened to my plans this time.” 

Mr. Stark snorts. “Never say that the force of grief doesn’t accomplish anything.” He walks Peter backwards to the kitchen, before pulling him to his side. “Now come on, FRIDAY said you didn’t eat anything yet.”

Mr. Stark is here. He came back to the Tower, to Peter. He closes his eyes, breathes, and lets the sound of Mr. Stark’s voice wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cut Chapter 2 in half because it was long. I'll post the final chapter after I finish a gift exchange. :) Let me know what you think. Kudos and comments mean the world to me!


	3. Chapter 3

Summer bleeds into autumn. The trees surrounding Central Park all shift from evergreens to a vibrant collection of orange and yellow hues. 

Peter goes to work and it really seems trite because holy shit, Tony Stark is alive and Iron Man is back and the whole world is exploding with questions.

He’s still holding his breath. Peter can’t help it. Can’t help but think that this is all a great illusion. Even with Dr. Strange confirming that the man who now lives in the Tower is Tony Stark, doubts rattle around Peter’s head.

What if this is a mistake? What if one day he’ll wake up and Tony disappears again? Sometimes Peter wonders if he’s always living with his heart in his throat. 

Waiting. 

Just waiting for what’s left in his life to vanish and breakdown into simple atoms. Just molecules, like dust motes floating in the emptiness of the penthouse. 

Sometimes he stumbles and falls off buildings, only catching himself at the last second because pushing air through his lungs seems like an impossible task when he thinks of Tony Stark waiting for him at home.

Home. That’s what it is.

Peter swings from building to building until he reaches the Tower. When he’s a few blocks away, he decides to do one last sweep across Midtown even though it’s likely that Daredevil is prowling around the area.

Once Midtown proves to be safe from burglars and other illicit activities, Peter heads to the Tower.

Some days there’s an itch in his arms, a tingle in the back of his neck. It’s all he can do to run his fingers on the spots, wishing it was Mr. Stark’s hands on him.

He no longer feels ashamed at these banal desires. Peter comes to understand the grief of loss, but he still stands at the precipice of confessing his feelings and being too afraid to destroy the fragile rapport they’ve built. 

The climb up to the penthouse’s balcony is difficult with the wind picking up. Peter leans into it, smiling against his mask and he jumps up. Sliding the door open, he enters, thanking FRIDAY as the lights automatically turn on.

“Is Mr. Stark asleep?”

“He’s at the workshop,” FRIDAY supplies, a touch of irritation on her voice.

Peter sighs and makes his way down to Tony. Once he reaches the workshop, he taps on the glass door before stepping in. 

Mr. Stark pauses from where he’s standing, a hand still raised as he goes over files on the holo-screen. “You’re home.”

“I’m here,” Peter says, and suddenly, in the quiet of the lab, it feels too true, like he’s said so much more than he’s willing to admit. 

“Welcome home. I’ll be done in a sec, you can go up first.” Mr. Stark offers him a soft smile and starts to sweep away the screens with the flick of his wrists.

“I’ll wait.”

“You must be tired.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Peter counters. “You should be asleep.”

“Wanted to make sure you get home safe.” Mr. Stark shrugs, then stretches his hands and twists his neck.

“Always do.” 

Mr. Stark pauses his ministrations and gives Peter a knowing look. He wonders if simple conversation always leads their thoughts to Titan. To the battle at the Compound. To both of them turning into dust.

It’s tiring to live in the edges of uncontained fear, of always considering whether each day is their last. Peter wonders if he’ll ever get used to it. Possibly not.

He pushes forward, removes his mask, then drops it to the sleek table. It’s filled with gadgets and chemicals. It almost makes him laugh how he and Mr. Stark function in this chaos.

Peter grabs Mr. Stark’s wrist and pulls him towards the elevators and back into the penthouse.

They’re quiet as they set foot into the bedroom. They’ve done this nearly every night since Mr. Stark’s return. A routine.

Peter enters the bathroom and strips his suit off. He hangs it at the back of the door and waits for the shower to warm up. On cold nights, he likes to twist the knob until it’s as hot as possible. 

Today, he settles for lukewarm temperature and begins the process of scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body. He ignores the desire to fist his cock. It lasts for approximately ten seconds. 

He’s aching hard just from the thought of Tony waiting for him outside the bathroom.

Peter jerks his cock in quick strokes. He comes, but it’s not really a relief and he bites his lips as he watches his spunk go down the drain.

He turns off the shower, brushes his teeth, and changes to sweats. 

“Your turn,” he says, raising the blankets and slipping in.

“I’ll be quick.”

“You don’t have to. You can take your time.”

“I know.” Mr. Stark huffs. “Just ready for bed.”

Peter hums and watches him go. He listens to the sound of the shower turning on, entertaining the thought that maybe Mr. Stark can smell his come on the shower tiles. The running water goes off, and shortly, Mr. Stark cracks the door open with a soft smile. 

He bounces on the bed and turns to Peter. “Good patrol?”

“It was okay. No one got hurt. Caught some robbers in Forest Hill. Saw Daredevil jumping around in Midtown.”

“Good. That’s good.” Mr. Stark nods. 

“Do you miss it —”

“Sometimes, yeah. But also, I feel like I can rest now, you know?” Mr. Stark bites his lips. Peter can’t look away from the hint of teeth sinking into flesh. “There’s you. There’s others. Carol and her New Avengers. New teams…yeah, I can rest.” 

“You can.” Peter pauses, closes his eyes, then admits, “I want you to rest.”

“I am,” Mr. Stark says, long eyelashes fluttering. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” Mr. Stark replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Just for being here.”

You can’t get rid of me, Peter doesn’t say, please don’t get rid of me. Please don't leave me. Please don’t make me leave. I don’t want to lose you. Please no.

“I’m here,” is all Peter says. 

“I’m happy you are.” There’s something deep in Mr. Stark’s eyes, but Peter can’t read it, and maybe he’ll never learn what certain smiles mean, but it’s alright. Maybe he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to understand. It’s a worthy cause. 

“Me too.”

* * *

It’s the weekend and Peter’s off work with nothing to do. Mr. Stark is spending the day with Morgan and while Mr. Stark said it’s alright for Peter to stay in the penthouse with them, Peter made excuses to see MJ. 

He isn’t ready to see Tony and Morgan walk hand in hand or be invited in their carved out time together. He isn’t ready for questions she might have. She’s too brilliant for her own good, and Peter’s as obvious as all those sayings go.

They’re sitting on the steps of the MET. 

MJ has a cup of tea sitting between them.

All around them, people filter in and out of the museum. Several tourists have stopped by the steps, posed, and kindly asked Peter to take their photograph. 

He smiles as he hands back the phone.

MJ punches his shoulder. “So.”

“Hmmm?”

She rolls her eyes. “Tony fucking Stark is back.”

“Yep.” 

“That’s it? You’re not freaking out with the rest of the world?”

“Of course I am,” Peter replies, trying to calm the stutter on his breastbone. 

He’s still not used to seeing Mr. Stark every morning. He wants to tell MJ all of it, how they’ve taken to sharing the same bed, whether it’s due to fear or grief, Peter can’t tell. 

But he wakes in the wee hours of the morning, and Mr. Stark is there, chest rising up and down against the sheets. 

Peter has tried to wave him off and say he’s fine alone, but Mr. Stark just glares at him and willfully settles his weight against the mattress. It’s not until late in the evening, so late it’s nearly dawn, that Peter realize that maybe Mr. Stark needs him too. 

They share the same bed and don’t talk about it. 

They wake in the morning, and try to make breakfast, except they’re both useless in the kitchen, so they share a whole pot of coffee with fruit and whatever else they find in the fridge that can be toasted.

Life goes on, and it still surprises him that there’s life at all. That somehow, this world continues to spin and the movement of the people against the city structures never stop. 

“There you go again.” MJ interrupts his meandering thoughts. “Thinking, always thinking, Peter Parker.”

“Do you ever stop worrying?” He asks, refusing to look at her. He senses her shoulders tense and he can imagine the quirk of her lips and the confused look on her face.

After a while, she sips her tea and sighs. “Well, worrying is part of my job. If I don’t worry about the next patient or if I don’t worry about understanding a concept, people will die. I suppose it’s the same thing with you.”

“Yeah.” Peter nods, but he isn’t good at being alone, no matter how many years he’s spent trying to recreate his ghosts.

“But this time, you have someone to worry with.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. Tony Stark,” she deadpans and gestures to the direction of the Tower blocks away. 

The absurdity of the statement makes Peter laugh. It’s not that Mr. Stark doesn’t worry. All Mr. Stark ever does is fret, hence, the adage proposal of a suit of armor around the world. But maybe it isn’t about not worrying at all. It’s about having someone to share the weight of it with. 

Peter smiles. “I should get going.”

“Fuck, Parker. You’re a kept man.”

“Shut up, MJ. It’s not like that.” 

She throws the empty cup at him. He catches it with ease. Peter walks the few steps and deposits it in the recycling bin. 

“You mean, not yet,” MJ calls out with a wave. “Let’s do this again, soon.”

He takes the subway home. The lights are bright enough that he can see his own reflection. On and on, the train zooms through the tunnels and he can only make sense of the flashes of graffiti due to his enhanced senses. There's poetry written on the advertisements and words, half-erased, on the seats.

Peter imagines Mr. Stark riding with him, only to realize he doesn’t have to. He can ask Mr. Stark to join him one day.

* * *

As the weeks pass, the weather gets cooler and they break out their winter coats and scarves. 

When Peter gets home from work, Mr. Stark’s sitting on the sofa, idly flicking through his tablet. Several holo-screens are up in the living room. He’s brainstorming with FRIDAY. 

“I’m home,” Peter says, and he’ll never tire of announcing his presence, especially if Mr. Stark returns the greeting with a warm welcome. 

Mr. Stark is still in the clothes he wore to sleep and his hair is mused, like he’s been running his hands through them. The sight is still arresting. Peter stands by the elevators, uncertain of what to do with himself. 

“Come on, kid, work with me, what do you wanna order for dinner?” Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow, and it’s only then does Peter realize he’s staring. 

He swallows. “Breakfast.”

“Breakfast for dinner? Jeez, we’re truly adulting here.” Mr. Stark stands and walks over to him. He settles a hand on Peter’s shoulder and walks him back to the sofa. “FRI, baby girl, breakfast burritos please.”

“From that place —” 

“Yes, Pete, from that place we like,” Mr. Stark confirms and Peter’s heart is in his throat because they have a regular place they order from and he’s living the domestic fantasies he’s never allowed himself to entertain. “Long day?”

Peter nods, strips his coat and kicks off his shoes. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. “Nap before patrol.”

“You work way too hard, kid.” 

“I like the work.”

“I know,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter can smell him in the short distance between them. 

The scent of sweat and day old cologne. It’s so real, he aches. 

When he blinks his eyes open, he catches Mr. Stark staring at him with a curiosity and a flash of something else, interest, perhaps, that’s transformed into a slight smile. There’s an intensity there that’s present from years ago, years of watching Mr. Stark work on his suit and refine nanotech on the arc reactor. He’s directing it at Peter now. 

Peter feels his breath catch for the zenith time, and he stays still, too afraid to say the wrong words, even though Mr. Stark would never fault him being tongue-tied.

Mr. Stark pulls Peter’s head to his lap and runs his fingers from Peter’s crown to the nape of his neck.

Peter’s eyelids grow heavy and he’s swept into a calm sleep.

* * *

Mr. Stark adjusts to life quickly. He’s always been adaptable. Built a suit of armor in a cave with scraps. Probably spent the entire months in captivity underfed and dehydrated. This is the same man that invented time travel and brought Peter _back to life._ Back from being a series of atoms spinning across the galaxies to flesh and blood with the ability to swing across the city. Fight.

And so, Peter lives, too. 

Little by little.

He watches Mr. Stark greet everyday with a trademark smile and unwavering defiance, and because of that, Peter feels a little braver too.

There are days when he doesn’t see Mr. Stark for hours. Either Mr. Stark’s visiting Morgan or they’re spending the day in the city. Sometimes Mr. Stark is at the Compound with the New Avengers, going over plans for increasing security details. Other evenings, Mr. Stark is with Colonel Rhodes, flying across state lines, just for fun.

Peter chuckles at the thought of them, both in suits, racing across the skylines. 

Somehow, it settles something lodged in his sternum. Mr. Stark is fine. Peter is too. And somehow, they’re both good together.

When Peter returns home from patrol, Mr. Stark is always at the Tower, awake with a project or on the verges of sleep in their shared bed. Always, always, always, even when they’ve both had long days and spent nearly the entire day apart, they always return to sleep on the same bed together.

Days before Christmas, Peter has to pause in the kitchen, grab the counter, and sob. 

Mr. Stark is still in the bedroom, puttering about, probably getting dressed now, opening and closing their shared cabinets, hanging up Peter’s unfolded laundry. 

He wipes his face and straightens when he hears the bedroom door squeak open. 

“What do you have planned for us today, kid?” Mr. Stark rests his hips against the counter and leans forward. He has a soft, encouraging smile playing on his face, and Peter still doesn’t understand how Mr. Stark can be here, taking everything at face value.

“Christmas tree,” he croaks out, voice thin, and points to the empty space beside the home entertainment set. He moves forward, slightly, getting into Mr. Stark’s orbit. He’s always drawn to him, closer and closer, as close as he can be. “Ornaments,” Peter adds, explaining the tradition of purchasing one ornament per year. “I still have the Stark Tower one...” he shudders, an image of his apartment burning down flashes before him. 

Mr. Stark grasps his wrist, squeezes it, understanding seeming to dawn on him. “Alright, kid, we’ll get as many as you want.”

“Just one,” Peter counters easily. “I got The Spider-Man figure last year, too.”

Mr. Stark gives him a knowing look, and Peter can’t decipher what it means, and his heart beats wildly at their proximity in the daylight. In the evenings, in their shared bed, it’s a little safer. But now, Mr. Stark winks at him and says, “Well, that’s easy then, we’ll just have to buy an Iron Man one.” 

“Yeah?” Peter laughs, imagining three ornaments on a large tree.

“Hmmm, I think they look good together.” Mr. Stark taps his wrist and moves his hands up to Peter’s forearms, his biceps, and shoulders. He leans down to catch Peter’s eyes. “And you said we’ll add another ornament every year?”

“Every year,” Peter confirms, heat rising to his face at the implication. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Always, kid.” Mr. Stark leads him out of the penthouse and into the city. 

Peter smiles all throughout, especially as Mr. Stark spots a baseball cap and sunglasses. 

They look normal, just two happy people walking around the city as the sun glimmers through the winter clouds.

* * *

When they get home, Mr. Stark strips off both their coats, hanging them up on the closet. He bends down and takes Peter’s shoes and sets it on the rack by the elevator. 

Peter sets up the tree, waiting for Mr. Stark’s return. He takes the small ornament box and sets it by the coffee table. 

“Next time, we should get a real tree,” Mr. Stark says, standing with hands on his hips, observing the tree. He reaches forward to pull at some of the plastic leaves. “Smells much nicer.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan.”

“I like that. Having plans.” 

“Together?” Peter blurts out, dropping his gaze from Mr. Stark’s eyes to his lips. 

“Yeah, kid, together.” Mr. Stark offers a hand, and Peter deposits the small box containing their ornaments. Mr. Stark takes the Spider-Man one and hangs it up, then raises his eyebrows at Peter. He nods towards the tree. “Put the rest up.” 

So, Peter does, and it’s only when Mr. Stark drops his chin on his shoulder does he realize he’s been holding his breath. He exhales shakily. Peter aches with so much want, and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop from turning and kissing Mr. Stark. He settles for reaching for Mr. Stark’s fingers and intertwining their hands. 

* * *

He does patrols on Christmas.

Morgan and Colonel Rhodes, along with Captain Danvers, joined them for brunch the day before, and Peter and Mr. Stark played hosts. Morgan quizzed them about the choices of the ornaments. All the while, Captain Danvers sighed heavily and kissed his cheek. “Be good,” she had said. “You too, Tony.”

Just last year, Peter stood on the rooftop of the penthouse, smoking a cigarette with Tony, a man he made out of wires and bolts, created with his bare hands. 

Now, he stands here with Mr. Stark by his side, watching the city explode in celebration. 

He’s pulling his mask down to his face and waving a goodbye, still slightly full from a five-course dinner Mr. Stark had ordered for both of them. Throat still raw, belly in knots from the way their lives are unfolding. 

“Kid, Merry Christmas,” is the last thing Peter hears before he jumps down the Tower in a free fall, welcoming the exhilarating feeling of the wind against his ear. He’s diving down, close to pressing for the web fluid, when something grasps his waist. 

His heart stops beating for a brief moment, until he registers the gauntlet hand, the smell of oil, and the modular voice that rings out, “Christmas Patrol together?”

Peter laughs all the way down.

* * *

A few days later marks the new year.

Mr. Stark makes them a simple pasta for dinner. 

Peter tells him about Daredevil in Midtown and Luke Cage in Harlem. Getting drunk at Luke Cage and Jessica Jones’s wedding his second year at NYU. Missing Colonel Rhodes’ and Captain Danver’s wedding because he was off fighting the Molten Man. 

Peter digs his fingers into the parts he’s hidden and presents all of it to Mr. Stark. 

There’s something about the new year that allows him to say things he’s kept deep in his bones. 

Peter has never hid anything from Mr. Stark before. He’s just been remiss on explaining...saying, failing to find the words to spell out what he feels, where he’s been, how he’s changed, and how through it all, he’s a little messy, a little fractured in the center.

He might be ready to talk now. He closes his eyes, thinks of how when he jumped down the Tower, Mr. Stark followed. 

Dinner transforms into a few hours in the lab, and then, Mr. Stark yawns and pulls Peter from his work table to the bedroom. 

He drops Peter on the bed and enters the bathroom. There's the sound of the electric toothbrush, the facet turning on and off, and Mr. Stark comes out in just his boxers and a soft t-shirt. "You are gonna brush your teeth before bed, right kid?"

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter rasps, feeling his cheeks heat as Mr. Stark casually lifts the covers and slides in. He stands to grab his clothes from the drawer and glances at the bed briefly. Mr. Stark gives him an indulgent smile, and it’s still all for him. Tony Stark’s attention is on him. 

Peter takes a quick shower, ignoring his half-hard cock. 

He tries to scrub the smell of cigarettes from his hair and fingers, but it’s a vain attempt. 

One day, he’ll need to quit because if he’ll be around Mr. Stark for the unseeable future — if they’ll sleep beside each other as the seasons change — he can’t. He needs to quit. Mr. Stark’s never asked him in all the months they’ve been together, and Peter appreciates that. He wants to make the decision on his one, and he does want to quit, only, it’s hard to let go of things that have given him comfort throughout the years.

He takes a deep breath, dropping his head to the tiles and begins to cry. His heart is being ripped open, and it’s alright, he wants it that way, if only to take it into his hands to give it to Mr. Stark.

Peter dries off, brushes his teeth, and runs a hand through his head. He walks out. 

Mr. Stark flicks away the holoscreen and pats the bed. Peter slips in, staring at the ceiling. 

The silence engulfs them. 

There’s only the dim lights from the bedside table and the flashes from the skyscraper across from their building. The moon is hiding tonight. 

“One of the last things I saw before I passed was you,” Mr. Stark begins, turning over to rest a hand on Peter’s neck. “You crying in that field. I don’t want to see you cry anymore. I want you...happy. Smiling. And I know, I’ve been gone so long, I’ve missed so much of your life but what I said last night is true. I’m so damned proud of you. I’m happy, you’re here, with me. And Pete, I wanna know everything. Sometimes I look at you and I feel like you’re holding back, and that’s alright. I’ll wait till you’re ready. But I want to know. All that you’ve been up to, everything you’ve been through. If you let me. If you want that, too.”

“Mr. Stark. _Tony_.” Peter shuts his eyes, voice hoarse. He wouldn’t know where to begin to explain the last decade. He isn’t a child anymore. Not the starstruck kid from Queens. 

His feelings transformed into something softer, something rougher, and too complicated. Love, he’s always imagined it to be easy, but it’s anything but that. It’s a little worn, but still there all the same. Like a wildfire. It burns everything in the vicinity and changes the ecosystem. 

Loss is like that, too. It felt like valleys burning down, the earth is scorched and uninhabitable even as the seasons pass. “There are things I’ve done,” Peter finally says.

“That’s not going to drive me away,” Mr. Stark whispers, pressing closer until they’re just inches apart. 

“I don't know. I feel like you're always leaving and I'm always too late," Peter admits, feeling his eyes grow heavy with unshed tears.

“Pete, I’m here, I’m here. I’m not going. I’m staying.”

“I know,” Peter makes a frustrated sound. “Intellectually, I know that. But I can’t. I can’t help it. I know what it’s like to lose you.”

“So do I.” 

“You know why I did it, right? That’s because while living with you — a version of you — everything reminded me of you. You were gone. I’d walk down the street and there’s you. A photograph, a mural, something about your life in the papers, even years after you passed. You were there. Always. And life without you was unbearable. I needed...I needed to say goodbye. To say the things I needed to say, and the days just passed by and I found more reasons for him. To keep you. I’m sorry...I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark. Tony. I just —” He reaches for Mr. Stark’s face, no longer satisfied in admiring it from afar. He couldn't touch him like this in Titan because his arms were fading. But now, he's here, unraveling in this moment, and it feels so good, but he’s frightened, and by that, the fear lies to rest, making Peter freeze up. He forces the words out. "You know, ‘I love you’ doesn't even begin to cover it." 

“Peter, come here. We’re not saying goodbye this time.” Mr. Stark pulls him to his chest so that Peter’s on top of him. Their legs tangle and Peter shifts, dropping his entire body to cover Mr. Stark’s. For the first time, a feeling of content takes root in his bones. 

“Everything I’ve done has been a way — a fucked up way, maybe — to look for you. For what’s left of you. It’s all smoke signals, waiting for you to come back. Come home to us. To me. I know it’s selfish. You don’t owe me anything, and you died. You _died._ And I was still hoping, wishing you’d come back. I just love you so much. I don’t even know when or how I started loving you. I just do. It’s part of me. Everything I do, everything I’ve done, it’s with you in my mind. That’s it. Tony, I love —” 

Before he can finish the sentence, Mr. Stark pushes his hair back, cups his face, and brings their lips together. 

One of Mr. Stark's hands circles his waist, the other caresses his face, and Peter deepens the kiss by opening his mouth, allowing Mr. Stark's — _Tony!_ — tongue to slip inside. 

Peter moans, ignoring the sting of his eyes, the heat on his face. He curls his toes, pushes slightly up and skates his hands over Tony's shirt. When Peter reaches the end, he tugs and tugs until Tony raises his arms and the shirt is removed. 

Tony reaches for Peter’s hands and puts it to his chest. The arc reactor glows as Peter traces the edges with his finger. “Kid, you have me. You can keep me. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Promise me, alright, tell me everyday because if I don’t hear it, I might think otherwise.”

“Then you’ll have to remind me you won’t fade away. Won’t turn to dust.”

Peter leans down, kissing the tears that cascade down Tony’s face. He kisses Tony’s eyes, the space between his brows, then finally, he slides their mouths together, putting everything he can’t say at the moment into the kiss. 

Tony grabs his waist and his hand glides past Peter's lower back to palm at his ass. Peter rocks into it, groaning, tearful and full of hope. "Tony, Tony, Tony."

Tony flips them so Peter’s on his back. He spreads his legs, letting Tony between them before resuming the kiss. His hands trace the strong muscle of Tony’s stomach, his defined chest, his broad shoulders, and it’s everything Peter’s ever wanted, right in the palm of his hands. He’s always believed it was crazy that you could hold something perfect, but the sentiment is true. 

“Kid, look at you. You keep me. I keep you, alright?” He asks, lips ghosting down Peter’s jaw and throat. He sucks like a possessed man, gentle and forceful all at once. 

Peter reaches down to remove his shirt, tossing it to the end of the bed without a second glance. Tony pushes him back down to the mattress and leans to kiss Peter’s chest. His heart. He murmurs a litany of promises about how he’s not going anymore, that death isn’t taking him away this time, how much he wants this, and how he’s the luckiest man. 

“No, no.” Peter shakes his head, petting Tony’s hair, relishing in the fact that he can touch all he wants. “I’m the lucky one. You’re back. You’ve come back to me.”

Tony huffs, nosing Peter’s rib cage, tutting about the fading yellow bruises down his torso. “That’s all I wanted. You, back. Even at the cost of my own life.”

“Tony, god, Tony.” Peter lets out a shaky exhale and presses a hand to his eyes. There’s a burst of pain right under his eyelids, and he can’t keep them open, no matter how much he wants to see the look on Tony’s face.

“It’s alright, baby,” Tony says, voice soft and determined. He rubs circles on Peter’s shoulders and chest, and it occurs to him that he’s not the only one that needs reassurance. 

Peter locks a leg on Tony's waist, pulling him until their lips meet again. He trails kisses down Tony's jaw, shifting further and further down until he's mouthing at Tony's chest. He licks at the raised scar tissue there.

And yes, Peter knows the story of how it got there, how it bled and was remade, then broken again in Siberia. To press his mouth against it now feels like an answer to a prayer he doesn't remember saying. 

Above him, Mr. Stark exhales, and he's petting Peter's hair, drawing him to his chest, and for the first time in a long time, Peter feels safe without the suit. He takes Tony's nipples into his mouth, tugging and licking. 

“You’re real.” Peter listens to the beat of his heart, studying the quick rise and fall of Tony’s chest. 

“Do you have to be so damned earnest about everything, kid?” Tony groans, rocking their bodies together. Their cocks touch and it’s like being zapped by electricity. “I’m here. I’m here, I’m not leaving you.”

Tony grinds his hips, circling the wet spot on their boxers before sitting back to run his hands over Peter's stomach. Back and forth, back and forth, it goes on until Peter's whining and grasping for the sheets. "Please, please.”

Tony kisses him again and it’s like everything Tony does — he licks at Peter’s mouth with an intensity that makes him burn. Tony kisses down, lower and lower, until his hands palm Peter through his boxers, and then he’s pulling them down and shoving it on the end of the bed. 

He picks up Peter’s ankles, kisses them, and it’s slightly embarrassing because Tony’s looking at him with a mix of want, adoration, and love. 

That’s it. Love, love, love. So much love, he cries with the force of it. 

Heavy teardrops fall from his face. It’s as if everything that’s happened in his life is a path that leads to this. 

“Let me make you feel good.” Tony leans down and licks the head of his cock, languid and unhurried, exploratory, like getting to know each other for the first time. He groans, eyes flickering open to stare at Peter. 

He moans, thrusting up, unable to help himself. “Oh, Mr. Stark. Fuck, Tony.” He reaches down, tugging at Tony’s hair.

Tony pulls off to lick his balls. “Fuck my face, Pete. Come on, you can do it. Take what you want,” he says, with an encouraging smile. 

Peter thrusts into Tony’s awaiting mouth and it’s all too much when Tony snakes a finger to prod at his hole. Tony leans on his elbows, eyes closed, spit dripping down his goatee. Peter cards his hand through Tony’s hair, pushing him further down, and Tony swallows him down to the base, groaning, and letting Peter take the reins. It’s too much. Peter’s balls tighten and Tony holds still, letting him thrust fast and hard. His orgasm rips through him. 

Humming, Tony swallows his come. 

“You taste fantastic, kid.” He leans up, rubbing his hard cock on Peter’s hip. “Have a taste.”

The kiss is spit, come, and the taste of cigarettes mixing together. Peter opens his mouth, inviting the taste of himself on Tony. He groans, senses going at full speed, and he’s hard again.

"Tony. Tony." 

Tony's mouth is in a tightline, like he's trying to control himself, as if he'd be a mess like Peter if he doesn’t contain himself. But Peter wants nothing more than for Tony to make incisions on his body so Peter can climb inside and stay there. Tony kisses his belly button, nips his hips, and the smile on his lips is so inspiring, Peter could claw his chest open and rip himself in two. “Fuck me, please, please, I need you. To feel you. You inside me.”

Make it real, Peter doesn’t say.

“Fuck kid, you make me crazy. You make me —” he breaks off, dropping kisses all over Peter’s face. “You make me feel loved. Human.” 

“I do, Tony, I do. I love you.” 

“As easy as that?” Tony murmurs, kissing his mouth, again and again.

“Yes, as easy as that, because I love you.”

He pauses, examining Peter’s face as if he can’t believe what Peter is saying. Tony swallows, unsure and frightened. “I’m not used to easy.”

“Neither am I.” Peter sighs, wrapping his arms around Tony. 

Peter tilts his head, kissing both of Tony’s eyes soundly. Eyelashes flutter under his lips, coming away wet. He wants nothing more than to stay here, in this moment, in a loop of love, confession, and being one. 

“I can’t lose you,” Tony says, voice cracking at the end. 

Peter knows he means, _I love you, too._

“You won’t lose me,” Peter promises, nudging the curve of Tony’s chin and reveling in the scratch of his goatee. “Make love to me, Tony. Fuck me so I remember that you’re here and I don’t have to miss you anymore.”

Tony’s mouth curls into a pleased smile, and his eyes have a soft glint. Tony takes his time opening him up, stretching him with his tongue and fingers. He licks at Peter, reducing him into a crying mess, making him come again when he rubs Peter’s prostate. 

His body is covered in come and sweat, and Tony leans down and licks his cock back to full mast. He’s shaking with want and some unnamed emotion that he thinks might be called happiness. 

Tony stares at him for a moment, sighing, “Peter.” He kicks off his boxers, lines himself up to Peter’s wet hole, and then he’s sliding in. 

Sliding home. 

There's a bruise on the column of Tony's throat. Peter reaches for it, outlining its shape. Tony pauses for a moment, centering himself, gasping as Peter’s fingers trail down to trace the scar on his sternum. He closes his eyes, and Peter’s lips curl into a victory smile. 

“Can you tell me again? I need to hear it,” Tony whispers, harshly. His eyes are dark, almost wild. 

Peter wants to curl up in his chest and never leave. If he could, he’d crawl inside Tony’s sternum, the place where the arc reactor is placed, and stay there, illuminated by the light of the machine with only Tony’s beating heart to lull him to sleep.

“I love you, Tony. I’ve loved you for a long time. Years.”

Tony opens his eyes, and he stays silent, but the expression on his face is certain, as if this is something he's always known and finally accepting. "No goodbyes this time."

Peter shakes his head, wrapping his legs around Tony and squeezing, rocking forward, motivating Tony to start fucking him in earnest. He pulls in and out, movements steady, thrusts deep. He covers Peter's torso with his own until they’re chest to chest and there’s nothing separating them. Tony's elbows box Peter's head, and Peter cradles Tony’s head, crashing their mouths together in a groan.

He buries his head on the muscle between Tony’s shoulder and throat, moaning as Tony grips his waist, lifts him a little higher, movement getting faster, harder. Tony pants harshly, then he’s twisting Peter in half, bridging them together. “I’m gonna come inside you, Pete. Can I — I, can I please?”

“Yes, yes, come inside me. I want you, need you, please. Tony.” Peter moans, fingers scratching at the firm muscles of Tony’s back, viciously, because he wants to mark him, wants Tony to wake up tomorrow morning with the evidence of this. He turns, sucking a bruise on the corner of Tony’s jaw, tilting his pelvis to work Tony into orgasm.

“Fuck, baby, fuck,” Tony gasps, putting a hand between their sweaty bodies to jerk Peter off. “Come for me.”

He surges up to kiss Tony and comes. Tony whispers a string of praise, how gorgeous Peter is, how he’s Peter’s, and how they’ll always have this and the only thing Peter can do is mumble, “Mine. Mine. Yours. Yours.”

Tony’s thrusting grows erratic and he’s licking Peter’s lips open again, and it’s a fantastic feeling to feel bone-weary from coming so hard with Tony chasing his own orgasm. Using Peter. Peter is the one doing this for him. With a smile, he palms Tony’s ass, squeezing, moving him faster and faster until Tony comes. A burst of warmth filling his hole. 

He brings Tony impossibly closer, and when Tony tries to pull off, Peter grips him harder, willing for them to stay connected a little longer. The smell of come and sweat fills the room, and he can smell the stash of tobacco on the bedside table, but mostly, his senses are all cued to Tony. Tony. Tony.

Peter relents and lets Tony pull off. A gush of come slips out, and Tony grins, a bright, larger than life smile. He circles Peter’s rim, fucking his come back inside. Tony falls back to the duvet and pulls Peter to his chest. They hum, exchanging soft kisses that still burn, but not with the same intensity of the last hour. Tony’s hands skim his back, mapping the ridges of his spine. 

He noses Tony’s neck, content. Happy. 

“I’ve been looking for you, like you were looking for me,” Tony begins, pressing his knuckles to his left eye. He tilts Peter’s face up so they’re staring into each other's eyes. Tony chokes out, “I’ve been looking for you all my life. After everything, you’re here. And I’m alive again, it’s a lot. And there’s so many things to do. But Peter, this is it for me, baby. I’m alive, you’re alive. I want to make you happy. I don’t want to waste any more time.” Tony leans their foreheads together, both slick with sweat, then he whispers, “I love you, kid.” 

“That’s it?” Peter asks, a smile slotting itself to his face.“As easy as that?”

“Yes.” Tony presses forward, kissing him on the lips. Peter feels both their lips curl into a smile. “As easy as that, baby. End of discussion.”

* * *

They fall in and out of sleep, arms around each other. In the middle of the night, Peter wakes to find Tony working on a holoscreen. His hair is mused and his lips are slightly chapped. He is perfect. Tony’s focused, fingers zooming in and out, making notes on the program, and Peter lies there, amazed that this man has returned to him.

Mark 86, the program reads. 

Peter’s been running all his life. Since he started screaming in the hospital room and his mother peered up at him and poked his nose. Before even crawling, he was running, one foot after the other. He’s been fragmented so many times in his short life, a piece of fallen branch, cracking as it falls. Stepped on, left, but never abandoned. The people who left didn’t have a choice. But here’s Tony Stark, sharing the same air as him, breathing in his vicinity. 

Peter thinks he’ll be alright. 

He reaches for Tony’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and settles it on Tony’s beating heart. 

“I love you,” Peter whispers. He can say that now. He can say it as much as he wants and Tony will be here to reply. 

“Did I wake you?” Tony closes the screens and shifts down the bed, pulling Peter to his arms.

“It’s okay. Let’s go to sleep.”

“Peter?” Tony shifts, pulling the blankets to their collarbones, then he’s twisting the fallen strands of Peter’s hair. 

“Hmm.”

“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”

Peter laughs, the sound coming from deep in his core. The question is so simple. “Waffles,” he decides, a faint ache in chest. “And you. Waking up next to you in the morning.”

“I’ll be here. Tomorrow, next day, the day after. As long as you want.”

“Always, then. I love you, Tony.” 

“I love you too, kid,” he replies, voice fond. His face is shining in delight. 

Peter feels the grin breaking out from his own face. 

Their lips meet for another lingering kiss, trailing off until they fall back asleep, arms wrapped around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for getting this final chapter out so late. Thank you very much for reading. I appreciate comments and kudos. Please give me feedback. Please let me know if you were hurt. Please let me know if it made you happy. Please let me know what you think by dropping a line below!


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